"Come in!" said a voice from within.

The door being opened, they found themselves in the presence of a young man of pleasant appearance, apparently about twenty-five years of age.

"Good-evening, gentlemen," he said. "I am glad to see you. Will you have seats?"

"Thank you," said Fosdick. "We came in on a little business. I understand you are a teacher, Mr. Layton."

"Yes, I am engaged in a private school in the city."

"My friend and myself are engaged in business during the day, but we feel that our education is quite deficient, and we want to make arrangements to study evenings. We cannot do this to advantage without assistance. Are you occupied during the evenings?"

"No, I am not."

"Perhaps you would not like teaching in the evening, after being engaged in the daytime."

"On the contrary, I have been hoping to secure scholars; but I hardly knew how to set about it."

"Are you acquainted with the French language, Mr. Layton?"

"Yes, I am tolerably familiar with it. I studied it at college with a native teacher."

"If you are a college graduate, then, you will be able to teach us whatever we desire to learn. But I am afraid we may not be able to make it worth your while. We have neither of us large salaries. But if four dollars a week—two dollars for each of us—would be satisfactory—"

"I shall be satisfied with it," said Mr. Layton. "In fact," he added, frankly, "I shall consider it quite a welcome addition to my salary. My father died a year since, and my mother and sister are compelled to depend upon me in part for support. But I have not been able to do as much for them as I wished. This addition to my earnings will give me the means of increasing their comforts."

"Then it will be a pleasant arrangement all round," said Fosdick. "What would you advise us to study?"

After a few inquiries as to their present attainments, Mr. Layton recommended a course of mathematics, beginning with algebra, history, and the French language. He gave the boys a list of the books they would be likely to need.

The next evening the boys commenced studying, and determined to devote an hour and a half each evening to mental improvement. They found Mr. Layton an excellent teacher, and he on his side found them very apt pupils.

Dick had an active, intelligent mind, and an excellent capacity, and Fosdick had always had a thirst for learning, which he was now able to gratify. As his salary would have been insufficient to pay his expenses and the teacher besides, he was obliged to have recourse to his little fund in the savings bank. Dick offered to assist him, but Fosdick would not consent. Just as his savings were about exhausted, his wages were raised two dollars a week, and this enabled him to continue the arrangement without assistance.

In the course of a few weeks the boys commenced reading French, and found it quite interesting.



CHAPTER IX.

ROSWELL CRAWFORD AT HOME.

While Fosdick and Dick are devoting their evenings to study, under the guidance of Mr. Layton, we will direct the reader's attention to a young gentleman who considered himself infinitely superior in the social scale to either. Roswell Crawford could never forget that Dick had once been a boot-black, and looked upon it as an outrage that such a boy should be earning a salary of ten dollars a week, while he—a gentleman's son—was only paid four, which he regarded as a beggarly pittance. Roswell's father had once kept a small dry goods store on Broadway, but failed after being in business a little less than a year. This constituted his claim to gentility. After his failure, Mr. Crawford tried several kinds of business, without succeeding in any. His habits were not strictly temperate, and he had died two years previous. His wife hired a house in Clinton Place, and took boarders, barely succeeding in making both ends meet at the end of the year. The truth was that she was not a good manager, and preferred to talk of her gentility and former wealth to looking after the affairs of the household. She was very much like her son in this respect.

Among Mrs. Crawford's boarders was Mr. Gilbert, who is already known to the reader as the book-keeper of Rockwell & Cooper. It has been mentioned also that he was Roswell's cousin, being a son of Mrs. Crawford's only brother. He, too, was not unlike his aunt and cousin, and all three combined to hate and despise Dick, whom Mrs. Crawford saw fit to regard as her son's successful rival.

"How's the boot-black, Cousin James?" asked Roswell, on the evening succeeding that which Dick had passed at Mr. Rockwell's.

"Putting on airs worse than ever," replied Gilbert.

"Mr. Rockwell has a singular taste, to say the least," said Mrs. Crawford, "or he wouldn't hire a boy from the streets, and give him such extravagant wages. To pay such a vagabond ten dollars a week, when a boy of good family, like Roswell, can get but four, is perfectly ridiculous."

"I don't believe he gets so much," said Roswell. "It's only one of his big stories."

"You're mistaken there," said Gilbert. "He does get exactly that."

"Are you sure of it?"

"I ought to be, since I received directions from Mr. Rockwell to-day to pay him that amount to-morrow night, that being the end of the week."

"I never heard of such a thing!" ejaculated Mrs. Crawford. "The man must be a simpleton."

"If he is, there's another besides him."

"Who do you mean?"

"Mrs. Rockwell."

"Has she made acquaintance with the boot-black, then?" asked Roswell, with a sneer.

"Yes, he visited them last evening at their house."

"Did he tell you so?"

"Yes."

"I should think they'd feel honored by such a visitor."

"Probably they did, for Mrs. Rockwell made him a present of a gold watch."

"WHAT!" exclaimed Roswell and his mother in concert.

"It's true. I sent him out to ask the time to-day, when he pulled out a new gold watch with an air of importance, and told me the time."

"Was it a good watch?"

"A very handsome one. It must have cost, with the chain, a hundred and twenty-five dollars."

"The idea of a boot-black with a gold watch!" exclaimed Roswell, with a sneer. "It's about as appropriate as a pig in a silk dress."

"I can't understand it at all," said Mrs. Crawford. "It can't be that he's a poor relation of theirs, can it?"

"I should say not. Mr. Rockwell wouldn't be likely to have a relation reduced to blacking boots."

"Is the boy so attractive, then? What does he look like?"

"He's as bold as brass, and hasn't got any manners nor education," said Roswell.

Poor Dick! His ears ought to have tingled, considering the complimentary things that were said of him this evening. But luckily he knew nothing about it, and, if he had, it is doubtful whether it would have troubled him much. He was independent in his ideas, and didn't trouble himself much about the opinion of others, as long as he felt that he was doing right as nearly as he knew how.

"Do you think this strange fancy of Mr. Rockwell's is going to last?" inquired Mrs. Crawford. "I wish Roswell could have got in there."

"So do I, but I couldn't accomplish it."

"If this boy should fall out of favor, there might be a chance for Roswell yet; don't you think so?" asked Mrs. Crawford.

"I wish there might," said Roswell. "I'd like to see that beggar's pride humbled. Besides, four dollars a week is such a miserable salary."

"You thought yourself lucky when you got it."

"So I did; but that was before I found out how much this boot-black was getting."

"Well," said Gilbert, "he isn't a favorite of mine, as you know well enough. If there's anything I can do to oust him, I shall do it."

"Couldn't you leave some money in his way? He might be tempted to steal it."

"I don't know yet what course would be best. I'll try to get him into trouble of some kind. But I can tell better by and by what to do."

Gilbert went up to his room, and Mrs. Crawford and Roswell were left alone.

"I wish you were at Rockwell & Cooper's, Roswell," said his mother.

"So do I, mother; but it's no use wishing."

"I don't know about that. Your cousin ought to have some influence there."

"The boot-black's in the way."

"He may not be in the way always. Your cousin may detect him in something that will cause his discharge."

"Even if he does, I've tried once to get in there, and didn't succeed. They didn't seem to take a fancy to me."

"I shouldn't expect them to, if they take a fancy to a common street boy. But when they find him out, they may change their opinion of you."

"I don't know how that will be, mother. At any rate, I think I ought to get more than four dollars a week where I am. Why, there's Talbot, only two years older than I, gets eight dollars, and I do more than he. To tell the truth, I don't like the place. I don't like to be seen carrying round bundles. It isn't fit work for a gentleman's son."

Roswell forgot that many of the most prosperous merchants in the city began in that way, only on less wages. One who wants to climb the ladder of success must, except in very rare cases, commence at the lowest round. This was what Roswell did not like. He wanted to begin half-way up at the very least. It was a great hindrance to him that he regarded himself as a gentleman's son, and was puffed up with a corresponding sense of his own importance.

The more Roswell thought of his ill-requited services, as he considered them, the more he felt aggrieved. It may be mentioned that he was employed in a dry goods store on Sixth Avenue, and was chiefly engaged in carrying out bundles for customers. A circumstance which occurred about this time deepened his disgust with the place.

About the middle of the next week he was carrying a heavy bundle to a house on Madison Avenue. Now it happened that Mr. Rockwell, who, it will be remembered, lived on the same street, had left home that morning, quite forgetting an important letter which he had received, and which required an early answer. He therefore summoned Dick, and said, "Richard, do you remember the location of my house?"

"Yes, sir," said Dick.

"I find I have left an important letter at home. I have written a line to my wife, that she may know where to look for it. I want you to go up at once."

"Very well, sir."

Dick took the note, and, walking to Broadway, jumped on board an omnibus, and in a few minutes found himself opposite the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Here he alighted, and, crossing the Park, entered Madison Avenue, then as now lined with fine houses.

Walking briskly up the avenue, he overtook a boy of about his own size, with a large bundle under his arm. Glancing at him as he passed, he recognized Roswell Crawford.

"How are you, Crawford?" said Dick, in an offhand manner.

Roswell looked at the speaker, whom he recognized.

"I'm well," said he, in a stiff, ungracious manner.

Ashamed of the large bundle he was carrying, he would rather have been seen by any boy than Dick, under present circumstances. He did not fail to notice Dick's neat dress, and the gold chain displayed on his vest. Indeed there was nothing in Dick's appearance which would have been inconsistent with the idea that he lived on the avenue, and was, what Roswell claimed to be, a gentleman's son. It seemed to Roswell that Dick was immensely presumptuous in swaggering up Madison Avenue in such a style, as he mentally called it, and he formed the benevolent design of "taking down his pride," and making him feel uncomfortable, if possible.

"Have you lost your place?" he inquired.

"No," said Dick, "not yet. It's very kind of you to inquire."

"I suppose they pay you for walking the streets, then," he said, with a sneer.

"Yes," said Dick, composedly; "that's one of the things they pay me for."

"I suppose you like it better than blacking boots?" said Roswell, who, supposing that Dick was ashamed of his former occupation, felt a malicious pleasure in reminding him of it.

"Yes," said Dick, "I like it better on the whole; but then there's some advantages about boot-blackin'."

"Indeed!" said Roswell, superciliously. "As I was never in the business, I can't of course decide."

"Then I was in business for myself, you see, and was my own master. Now I have to work for another man."

"You don't seem to be working very hard now," said Roswell, enviously.

"Not very," said Dick. "You must be tired carrying that heavy bundle. I'll carry it for you as far as I go."

Roswell, who was not above accepting a favor from a boy he didn't like, willingly transferred it to our hero.

"I carried it out just to oblige," he said, as if he were not in the daily habit of carrying such packages.

"That's very kind of you," said Dick.

Roswell did not know whether Dick spoke sarcastically or not, and therefore left the remark unnoticed.

"I don't think I shall stay where I am very long," he said.

"Don't you like?" asked Dick.

"Not very well. I'm not obliged to work for a living," added Roswell, loftily, but not altogether truly.

"I am," said Dick. "I've had to work for a living ever since I was six years old. I suppose you work because you like it."

"I'm learning business. I'm going to be a merchant, as my father was."

"I'll have to give up the bundle now," said Dick. "This is as far as I am going."

Roswell took back his bundle, and Dick went up the steps of Mr. Rockwell's residence and rang the door-bell.



CHAPTER X.

A STORE ON SIXTH AVENUE.

Roswell kept on his way with his heavy bundle, more discontented than ever. The bundle seemed heavier than ever. Dick had no such bundles to carry. He had an easier time, his business position was better, and his wages more than double. And all this in spite of the glaring fact that Roswell was a gentleman's son, and Dick wasn't. Surely fortune was very blind, and unfair in the distribution of her favors.

"I suppose he'll be crowing over me," thought Roswell, bitterly, judging from what would have been his own feeling had the case been reversed. "I hope he'll have to go back to boot-blacking some day. I wish mother'd buy me a gold watch and chain. There'd be some sense in my wearing it."

Roswell evidently thought it very inappropriate that Dick should wear a handsome gold watch, more especially as he was quite sure beforehand that his mother would not gratify his own desire to possess one. Still he resolved to ask.

There was another thing he meant to ask. Feeling that his services were worth more than the wages he received, and convincing himself that his employers would be unwilling to lose him, he determined to ask an advance of two dollars a week, making six dollars in all. Not that he considered that even this would pay him, but as he could hardly hope that he would be appreciated according to his deserts, he limited his request to that sum. He concluded to defer making his application until Saturday evening, when he would receive his week's wages.

He consulted his mother upon this subject, and she, having nearly as high an opinion of her promising son as he had himself, consented to the application. If his cousin, James Gilbert, had heard of his intention, he was enough of a business man to have dissuaded him from the attempt. Though he saw fit to espouse the cause of Roswell against Dick, it was more because he disliked the latter than because he was blind to the faults of the former. Indeed, he had a very moderate opinion of his young cousin's capabilities.

The days slipped by, and Saturday night came. It was nine o'clock before Roswell was released, the Saturday-night trade being the best of the week. The other clerks had been paid, Roswell's turn coming last, because he was the youngest.

The designation of the firm was HALL & TURNER. Mr. Hall, the senior partner, usually went home early in the evening; and Mr. Turner, the junior partner, a man of about thirty-five, attended to the evening business, and paid the weekly wages.

"Here, Crawford," he said, counting out four one dollar bills; "it's your turn now."

"I want to speak to you for a moment, Mr. Turner," said Roswell, beginning to feel a little nervous; for now that the time had come for making his request, he felt a little uncertain how it would be received.

"Very well," said his employer, showing a little surprise; "be quick about it, for I want to get through."

"I want to know if you will not be willing to raise my wages," said Roswell, rather awkwardly.

"On what ground do you ask for it?" said Mr. Turner, looking up.

"I thought I might be worth more," said Roswell.

"How long have you been in my employment,—do you remember?"

"About four months," said Roswell.

"Do you think you have learned enough in that time to make you worth more?"

"Yes, sir," said Roswell, with a little hesitation.

"How much more would satisfy you?"

"Two dollars more,—for the present," said Roswell, beginning to feel a little hopeful.

"That is six dollars a week."

"Yes, sir."

"And how soon would you expect another advance?" asked Mr. Turner, quietly.

"In about six months."

"You are quite moderate in your demands, certainly."

There was something in Mr. Turner's tone which struck Roswell as unfavorable, and he hastily said in his own justification:—

"There's a friend of mine, no older than I am, who gets ten dollars a week."

Certainly Roswell must have spoken inadvertently, or he would hardly have referred to Dick as his friend; but his main idea at present was to produce an impression upon the mind of Mr. Turner.

"Is your friend in a dry goods store?" asked Mr. Turner.

"No, sir."

"Then I don't see that his wages have any bearing upon your case. There may be some special circumstances that affect his compensation. How long has he been in the service of his present employer?"

"Only a week or two."

"Is this his first place?"

"Yes, sir."

"It may be that he is some relative of his employer."

"That isn't very likely," said Roswell, his lip curling. "He used to be a boot-black about the streets."

"Indeed!" said Mr. Turner, keenly. "I think you said he was a friend of yours."

"No, sir," said Roswell, proudly; "I haven't the honor."

"You certainly said 'There's a friend of mine, no older than I am, who gets ten dollars a week.'"

"I didn't mean to speak of him as my friend," said Roswell; "I'm a gentleman's son."

"If you are, his friendship might do you no harm. If he receives the wages you state, he must be a smart fellow. If he didn't earn as much, probably he would not receive it."

"I don't believe he'll keep his place long," muttered Roswell, his wish being father to the thought.

"If he doesn't, you may be able to succeed him," said Mr. Turner. "I shall be compelled to refuse your request. Indeed, so far from increasing your compensation, I have been considering during the last week whether it would not be for my interest to get another boy in your place."

"Sir!" exclaimed Roswell, in dismay.

"I will give you my reasons. You appear to think yourself of too great consequence to discharge properly the duties of your position."

"I don't understand you, sir," stammered Roswell.

"I believe you claim to be a gentleman's son."

"Yes, sir," said Roswell. "My father used to keep a store on Broadway."

"And I am led to suppose you think it incompatible with your dignity to carry bundles to different parts of the city."

"I would rather stand behind the counter and sell goods," said Roswell.

"Of course you will be a salesman in time, if you stick to business faithfully. But it so happens that we didn't hire you as a salesman, but as a boy, whose chief business it should be to carry bundles. But we don't want to impose a disagreeable duty upon you. Therefore, if you think upon reflection that you would prefer not to continue in your situation, we will hire somebody else."

"That won't be necessary, sir," said Roswell, considerably crest-fallen.

"You are content, then, to remain?"

"Yes, sir."

"And upon four dollars a week?"

"Yes, sir. I suppose I may hope to have my wages increased some time?"

"When we find your services worth more, you shall receive more," said Mr. Turner. "That is fair,—isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then here is your money. I didn't mean to talk so long; but it's as well to come to an understanding."

Roswell left the store considerably crest-fallen. He found that, instead of regarding him worth an advance of wages, Mr. Turner had had it in his mind to discharge him; and that hurt his pride. It was certainly very singular that people shouldn't be more impressed with the fact that he was a gentleman's son. He could not have received less deference if he had been an ex-boot-black, like Dick himself. He certainly was no more contented than before, nor was his self-appreciation materially diminished. If the world did not recognize his claims, there was one comfort, his mother appreciated him, and he appreciated himself. As to his cousin, he did not feel quite so certain.

"Why are you so late, Roswell?" asked his mother, looking up from her work as he entered. "It seems to me they kept you later than usual at the store, even for Saturday evening."

"I'm sick of the store," said Roswell, impatiently.

"What's the matter?"

"I asked old Turner to-night if he wouldn't raise my wages," said Roswell.

"Well, what did he say?"

"He said he wouldn't do it."

"Did he give any reason?"

"He said I didn't earn any more. He's a stingy old hunks, any way, and I wish I was in another place."

"So do I; but it isn't so easy to get a new position. You had better stay in this till another offers."

"I hate carrying bundles through the streets. It isn't fit work for a gentleman's son."

"Ah, if your poor father had lived, things would have been very different with us all!" said Mrs. Crawford, with a sigh. She chose to forget that previous to his death her late husband's habits had been such that he contributed very little to the comfort or support of the family.

"I wouldn't care if I were a salesman," continued Roswell; "but I don't like being an errand boy. I'd just as lives go to the post-office for letters, or to the bank with money, but, as for carrying big bundles of calico under my arm, I don't like it. I was walking on Madison Avenue the other day with a ten-pound bundle, when the boot-black came up, dressed handsomely, with a gold watch and chain, and exulted over me for carrying such a big bundle."

There was a little exaggeration about this, for Dick was very far from exulting over Roswell, otherwise he certainly would not have volunteered to carry the bundle himself. But it often happens that older persons than Roswell are not above a little misrepresentation now and then.

"He's an impudent fellow, then!" said Mrs. Crawford, indignantly. "Then Mr. Hall won't raise your wages?"

"It wasn't Mr. Hall I asked. It was Mr. Turner," said Roswell.

"Didn't he hold out any hopes of raising your wages hereafter?"

"He said he would raise them when I deserve it. He don't amount to much. He's no gentleman," said Roswell, scornfully.

"Who's no gentleman?" inquired James Gilbert, who chanced just then to enter the room.

"Mr. Turner."

"Who's Mr. Turner?"

"My employer,—Hall & Turner, you know."

"What's amiss with him?"

"I asked him to raise my wages to-night, and he wouldn't."

"Umph! How much did you ask for?"

"Two dollars more a week."

"You're a fool!"

"What!" said Roswell, astonished.

"WHAT!" exclaimed Mrs. Crawford, angrily.

"I say the lad's a fool to ask for so large an advance so soon. Of course his employers refused it. I would, in their place."

"You're very hard upon the poor boy!" said Mrs. Crawford. "I thought you were his friend."

"So I am; but he's acted foolishly for all that. He should have known better."

"I ought to be worth six dollars, if your boot-black is worth ten," responded Roswell.

"He isn't worth ten."

"Why do you pay him that, then?"

"It's Mr. Rockwell who pays him, not I. Why he does it, I can't say. It isn't because he earns it. No boy of his age, or yours either, can earn ten dollars a week."

"At any rate he gets ten, and I get only four. I certainly earn more than that," said Roswell.

"I am not so sure about that," said his cousin. "But if it will afford you any comfort, I'll venture to make the prediction that he won't remain in Rockwell & Cooper's employment a week longer."

"Has anything happened?" asked Roswell, eagerly.

"Not yet," said James Gilbert, significantly.

"Then something is going to happen?"

"You need not trouble yourself to ask questions. Wait patiently, and when anything happens I'll let you know."

Here James Gilbert left the room, and went up to his own chamber. His words had excited hope in both Roswell and his mother. The former felt that it would be a satisfaction to him to learn that Dick had lost his situation, even if he failed to get it himself.



CHAPTER XI.

A NEW ALLIANCE.

The name of Micky Maguire is already familiar to the readers of "Ragged Dick." He had acquired a prominent position among the down-town boot-blacks by his strength, which he used oftentimes to impose upon boys weaker than himself. He was a young ruffian, indeed, with few redeeming qualities. When Dick was in the same business, he tried on two or three occasions to make him acknowledge his superiority; but it was not in Dick's nature to be subservient to any one whom he did not respect. Moreover, Dick had two good stout arms of his own, and knew how to use them in self-defence. The consequence was that Micky Maguire signally failed in the attempts which he made on different occasions to humble our hero, and was obliged to slink off in discomfiture with his satellite, Limpy Jim.

The last glimpse we had of Micky was in Dick's cast-off clothes, of which by some means, probably not honest, he had become possessed. He did not wear them long, however. The famous Washington coat and Napoleon pants were only mortal, and, being already of venerable antiquity, became at length too fragmentary even for Micky's not very fastidious taste. One morning, accordingly, having levied an unwilling contribution from a weaker but more industrious boot-black, Micky went to Baxter Street, and invested it in a blue coat with brass buttons, which, by some strange chain of circumstances, had found its way thither from some country town, where it may at one time have figured at trainings and on town-meeting days. A pair of overalls completed Micky's costume. He dispensed with a vest, his money not having been sufficient to buy that also.

Certainly Micky presented a noticeable figure as he stood in the City Hall Park, clad in the above-mentioned garments. He was rather proud of the brass buttons, and may even have fancied, in his uncultivated taste, that his new costume became him.

While he was swaggering about he espied part of a cigar, which some one had thrown aside. Micky, who was fond of smoking, picked it up, and looked about him for a light, not being provided with a match. A young man was slowly crossing the park with a cigar in his mouth. But he was evidently plunged in thought, and hardly conscious of the scene about him. Micky observed this, and a cunning scheme suggested itself.

He walked up to the young man, and said, cavalierly, "Give us a light, mister, will yer?"

The young man mechanically took the cigar from his mouth, and passed it to the questioner without observing who he was. Had he done so, it is doubtful whether the request would have been complied with.

Rapidly calculating that he would not notice the substitution, Micky, after lighting the "stub," handed it to the young man, retaining the good cigar himself, and placing it straightway in his mouth.

This trick would probably have passed off undetected, if it had not been observed by some of Micky's fellow-professionals.

A jeering laugh from these called the young man's attention to the substitution, and, with a look of indignation, he said, "You young rascal, you shall pay for this!"



But Micky evaded his grasp, and scudded rapidly through the park, pursued by the victim of misplaced confidence.

"Run, Micky; I'll bet on you!" cried Pat Nevins, encouragingly.

"Go it, long legs!" said another, who backed the opposite party. "Give him a good lickin' when you catch him."

"Maybe you'd have to wait too long for that," said Pat.

"Leave yer cigar wid us, mister," said another boy.

James Gilbert, for he was the young man in question, began to find that he was becoming rather ridiculous, and felt that he would rather let Micky go free than furnish a spectacle to the crowd of boot-blacks who were surveying the chase with eager interest. He accordingly stopped short, and, throwing down the "stub," prepared to leave the park.

"Don't give it up, mister! You'll catch him," said his first backer. "Micky can't run far. Ragged Dick give him a stretcher once."

"Ragged Dick!" said Gilbert, turning abruptly at the sound of this name.

"Maybe you know him?"

"Does he black boots?"

"He used to, but he don't now."

"What does he do?"

"Oh, he's a swell now, and wears good clothes."

"How is that?"

"He's in a store, and gets good pay."

"What's the name of the boy that ran away with my cigar?"

"Micky Maguire."

"Was he a friend of Ragged Dick, as you call him?"

"Not much. They had two or three fights."

"Which beat?"

"Dick. He can fight bully."

Gilbert felt disappointed. He was in hopes our hero had met with a defeat. Somehow he seemed born for success.

"Then I suppose Maguire hates him?"

"I'll bet he does."

"Humph!" thought Gilbert; "I may turn his enmity to some account. Let me consider a little."

At length a plan suggested itself, and his countenance cleared up, and assumed an expression of satisfaction. On reaching home he held the conversation with Roswell and his mother which has been recorded at the close of the last chapter.

Meantime Micky went home to a miserable lodging on Worth Street, in the precincts of the Five Points, and very near where the Five Points House of Industry now stands. This admirable institution has had a salutary influence, and contributed greatly to the improvement of the neighborhood. Then, however, it was about as vile and filthy as could well be.

Micky exulted not a little at the success of his cunning, and smoked the cigar—an expensive one, by the way—with not a little satisfaction. He recounted the story to a group of admiring friends who had not been fortunate enough to witness it.

"It's you that's got the cheek, Micky," said Teddy Donovan.

"You did it neat," said another. "Maybe I'll try that same, some day."

"You'd better not. The copp might get hold of you."

"Was it a good cigar, Micky?"

"Wasn't it, just! I wish I'd got another. Stand treat, Teddy."

"I would if I had the stamps. I'm savin' up my money to go to the Old Bowery to-night."

The boys were standing in a little group, and in the interest of their discussion did not observe the approach of James Gilbert, who was now visiting the park with a special object in view. With an expression of satisfaction he recognized the boy who had served him a trick the day before. Indeed, it was not easy to mistake Micky. The blue coat with brass buttons and the faded overalls would have betrayed him, even if his superior height had not distinguished him from his comrades.

Had Micky been aware of Gilbert's approach he would have thought it prudent to "change his base;" but, his back being turned, he was taken by surprise. His attention was drawn by a tap on the shoulder, and, looking round, he recognized his enemy, as he regarded him. He started to run, but was withheld by a strong grasp.

"Leave me alone, will yer?" he said, ducking his head as if he expected a blow.

"I believe you are fond of smoking," said Gilbert, continuing to hold him tight.

Micky maintained silence.

"And sometimes exchange a poor cigar for a good one?" continued his captor.

"It was a mistake," said Micky.

"What did you run for, then?"

"What you going to do about it, mister?" asked one boy, curiously.

"So it was a mistake,—was it?" said Gilbert.

"Yes, sir," said Micky, glibly.

"Take care you don't make the mistake again, then. Now you may black my boots."

Not only the boys who were standing by, but Micky himself, were considerably surprised at this unexpected turn. They confidently expected that Micky would "get a lickin'," and instead of that, he had found a customer. Their respect for Gilbert was considerably diminished for failing to exact punishment, and, their interest in the affair being over, they withdrew.

Micky laid down his box, and commenced operations.

"How long have you been a boot-black?" asked Gilbert.

"Five years—goin' on six," said Micky.

"Can you earn much?"

"No," said Micky. "Business aint very good now."

"You manage to dress well," said Gilbert, with an amused look at Micky's habiliments.

"Yes," said Micky, with a glance at the brass buttons; "but I had to borrer the money to buy my clo'es."

"There used to be a boy around here that was called Dick. Did you know him?"

"There be a good many Dicks. Which did you mean?"

"This boy was nearly your size. I believe they called him 'Ragged Dick.'"

"I know'd him," said Micky, shortly, with a scowl.

"Was he a friend of yours?"

"No, he wasn't. I give him a lickin' once."

The fact happened to be the other way; but Micky was not very scrupulous as to the strict truth of his statements.

"You don't like him, then? Where is he now?"

"He's in a store, and swells round with good clothes."

"Have you seen him lately?"

"No, an' I don't want to."

"He wears a gold watch now. I suppose he wouldn't have anything to say to you."

"Maybe not," said Mickey.

"It would be a good joke if he should lose his place and have to go back to boot-blacking again."

"I wish he would," said Micky, fervently. "It 'ould cure him of puttin' on airs."

"If, for example, his employer should be convinced that he was a thief, he would discharge him."

"Do you know him, mister?" asked Micky, looking up suddenly.

"Yes."

"Is he a friend of yours?"

"I like him about as well as you do," said Gilbert.

"Done!" said Micky, releasing the second foot.

"Suppose you brush the other boot again. I'll pay you double. I want to talk to you a little."

"All right!" said Micky, and he resumed operations.

The conversation that followed we do not propose to chronicle. The results will appear hereafter. Enough that Gilbert and Micky departed mutually satisfied, the latter the richer by five times his usual fee.



CHAPTER XII.

DICK FALLS INTO A TRAP.

One evening, when Dick and Fosdick returned from their respective stores, a surprise awaited them.

"The postman left some letters for you," said the servant, as she opened the door to admit them.

"Maybe they're from the tax-collectors," said Dick. "That's the misfortun' of being men of property. What was your tax last year, Fosdick?"

"I don't remember such trifles," said Fosdick.

"I don't think they was taxes," said the girl, seriously; "they looked as if they was from a young lady."

"Very likely they are from Fosdick's wife," said Dick. "She's rusticatin' in the country for the benefit of her health."

"Maybe they're from yours, Mr. Hunter," said the girl, laughing.

"No," said Dick, gravely, "I'm a disconsolate widower, which accounts for my low spirits most of the time, and my poor appetite. Where are the letters?"

"I left them on the bureau in your room," said the servant. "They come this afternoon at three o'clock."

Both Fosdick and Dick felt not a little curious as to who could have written them letters, and hastened upstairs. Entering their chamber, they saw two very neat little notes, in perfumed French envelopes, and with the initial G in colors on the back. On opening them they read the following in a neat, feminine, fine handwriting. As both were alike, it will be sufficient to give Dick's.

"Miss Ida Greyson presents her compliments to Mr. Richard Hunter, and solicits the pleasure of his company on Thursday evening next, at a little birthday party.

"No. — West Twenty-Fourth Street."

"We're getting fashionable," said Dick. "I didn't use to attend many parties when we lived in Mott Street and blacked boots for a livin'. I'm afraid I shan't know how to behave."

"I shall feel a little bashful," said Fosdick; "but I suppose we've got to begin some time."

"Of course," said Dick. "The important position we hold in society makes it necessary. How'll I be able to hold levees when I'm mayor, if I don't go into society now?"

"Very true," said Fosdick; "I don't expect to occupy any such position; but we ought to go in acknowledgment of Mr. Greyson's kindness."

Mr. Greyson was the teacher of the Sunday-school class of which both Dick and Fosdick were members. His recommendation had procured Fosdick his present place, and he had manifested his kindness in various ways. Those who have read "Ragged Dick" will remember that he had a very sprightly and engaging daughter of ten years of age, who seemed to have taken an especial fancy to Dick. Being wealthy, his kindness had been of great service to both boys, inspiring them with self-respect, and encouraging them to persevere in their efforts to raise themselves to a higher position.

The dinner-bell rang just as the boys had finished their discussion, and they went down and took places at the table.

Soon Miss Peyton came sailing in, shaking her ringlets coquettishly. She was proud of these ringlets, and was never tired of trying their fascinations upon gentlemen. But somehow they had not succeeded in winning a husband.

"Good-evening, Mr. Hunter," said she. "You look as if you had had good news."

"Do I?" said Dick. "Perhaps you can tell what it is."

"I know how it came," said Miss Peyton, significantly.

"Then I hope you won't keep me in suspense any longer than you can help."

"Perhaps you'd rather I wouldn't mention before company."

"Never mind," said Dick. "Don't have any regard to my feelin's. They're tough, and can stand a good deal."

"How do you like the letter G?" asked Miss Peyton, slyly.

"Very much," said Dick, "as long as it behaves itself. What is your favorite letter?"

"Don't think I'm going to tell you, Mr. Hunter. That was a pretty little note, and in a young lady's hand too."

"Yes," said Dick. "Perhaps you'd like to see it."

"You wouldn't show it to me on any account, I know."

"You may see it if you like," said Dick.

"May I, really? I should like to very much; but would the young lady like it?"

"I don't think she'd mind. She's written one to my friend Fosdick just like it."

Dick passed the invitation across the table.

"It's very pretty indeed," said Miss Peyton. "And is Miss Ida Greyson very handsome?"

"I'm no judge of beauty," said Dick.

"So she lives in West Twenty-Fourth Street. Is her father rich?"

"I don't know how rich," said Dick; "but my impression is that his taxes last year were more than mine."

"I know now what your favorite letters are," said Miss Peyton. "They are I. G."

"I. G. are very well as long as you don't put P. before them," said Dick. "Thank you for another cup of tea, Mrs. Browning."

"I should think you'd need some tea after such a brilliant effort, Hunter," said Mr. Clifton, from across the table.

"Yes," said Dick. "I find my brain gets exhausted every now and then by my intellectual efforts. Aint you troubled that way?"

"Can't say I am. Don't you want to go out and try a game of billiards this evening?"

"No, thank you. I've got to study."

"I expect to see you a college professor some of these days."

"I haven't made up my mind yet," said Dick. "I'm open to an offer, as the oyster remarked when he was placed on the table. If I can serve my fellow-men best by bein' a college professor, and gettin' a big salary, I'm willin' to sacrifice my private feelin's for the public good."

"Do you agree with your friend, Mr. Fosdick?" said Miss Peyton. "Won't you favor us with your views?"

"I have none worth mentioning," said Fosdick. "I leave my friend to do the talking, while I attend to the eating."

"Mr. Hunter's remarks are very entertaining," said Miss Peyton.

"Thank you," said Dick; "but my friend prefers a different kind of entertainment."

The boys rose from the table, and went up to their room to look over the evening's lessons. They were quite pleased with their new teacher, whom they found not only competent for his task, but interested in promoting their progress. He was able to help them readily out of their difficulties, and encouraged them to persevere. So they came to look forward to their evening lessons not as tasks, but as pleasant exercises.

"It's strange," said Dick, one evening after the teacher had left them; "I used to enjoy goin' to the Old Bowery so much. I went two or three times a week sometimes. Now I would a good deal rather stay at home and study."

"Then you didn't have a home, and the lighted theatre must have been much pleasanter than the cold and cheerless streets."

"Yes, that was it. I used to get so tired sometimes of having no home to go to, and nobody to speak to that I cared about."

"You'd hardly like to go back to the old life, Dick?"

"No, it would come pretty hard to me now. I didn't seem to mind it so much then."

"Because you had never known anything better."

"No. It was a lucky day when I met you, Fosdick. I'd never have had the patience to learn. Readin', or tryin' to read, always gave me the headache."

"You always leave off the last letter in such words as 'reading,' Dick. You should be more careful, now that you associate with educated persons."

"I know it, Fosdick, but I'm so used to droppin'—I mean dropping—the g that it comes natural. I will try to remember it. But about this party,—shall we have to get new clothes?"

"No, we have each a nice suit, and we shan't be expected to dress in the height of the fashion."

"I wish it was over. I dread it."

"So do I a little; but I think we shall enjoy it. Ida is a nice girl."

"That's so. If I had a sister I'd like her to be like Ida."

"Perhaps she'd like a brother like you. I notice she seems to fancy your company."

"I hope you're not jealous, Fosdick. You can be a brother to Miss Peyton, you know."

Fosdick laughed. "There's no chance for me there either," he said. "She evidently prefers you."

"I'll adopt her for my aunt if it'll be gratifying to her feelings," said Dick; "but I aint partial to ringlets as a general thing."

It is well perhaps that Miss Peyton did not hear these remarks, as she cherished the idea that both Fosdick and Dick were particularly pleased with her.

A day or two afterwards Dick was walking leisurely through Chatham Street, about half past one o'clock. He was allowed an hour, about noon, to go out and get some lunch, and he was now on his way from the restaurant which he usually frequented. As it was yet early, he paused before a window to look at something which attracted his attention. While standing here he became conscious of a commotion in his immediate neighborhood. Then he felt a hand thrust into the side-pocket of his coat, and instantly withdrawn. Looking up, he saw Micky Maguire dodging round the corner. He put his hand into his pocket mechanically, and drew out a pocket-book.

Just then a stout, red-faced man came up puffing, and evidently in no little excitement.

"Seize that boy!" he gasped, pointing to Dick. "He's got my pocket-book."

Contrary to the usual rule in such cases, a policeman did happen to be about, and, following directions, stepped up, and laid his hand on Dick's shoulder.

"You must go with me, my fine fellow," he said "Hand over that pocket-book, if you please."

"What's all this about?" said Dick. "Here's the pocket-book, if it is yours. I'm sure I don't want it."

"You're a cool hand," said the guardian of the public peace. "If you don't want it, what made you steal it from this gentleman's pocket?"

"I didn't take it," said Dick, shortly.

"Is this the boy that stole your pocket-book?" demanded the policeman of the red-faced man, who had now recovered his breath.

"It's the very young rascal. Does he pretend to deny it?"

"Of course he does. They always do."

"When it was found on him too! I never knew such barefaced impudence."

"Stop a minute," said Dick, "while I explain. I was standing looking in at that window, when I felt something thrust into my pocket. I took it out and found it to be that pocket-book. Just then that gentleman came up, and charged me with the theft."

"That's a likely story," said the officer. "If any one put the pocket-book into your pocket, it shows you were a confederate of his. You'll have to come with me."

And poor Dick, for the first time in his life, was marched to the station-house, followed by his accuser, and a gang of boys. Among these last, but managing to keep at a respectful distance, was Micky Maguire.



CHAPTER XIII.

DICK IN THE STATION-HOUSE.

Poor Dick! If Trinity Church spire had suddenly fallen to the ground, it could scarcely have surprised and startled him more than his own arrest for theft.

During the hard apprenticeship which he had served as a street boy, he had not been without his share of faults and errors; but he had never, even under the severest pressure, taken what did not belong to him.

Of religious and moral instruction he had then received none; but something told him that it was mean to steal, and he was true to this instinctive feeling. Yet, if he had been arrested a year before, it would have brought him less shame and humiliation than now. Now he was beginning to enjoy the feeling of respectability, which he had compassed by his own earnest efforts. He felt he was regarded with favor by those whose good opinion was worth having, and his heart swelled within him as he thought that they might be led to believe him guilty. He had never felt so down-hearted as when he walked in company with the policeman to the station-house, to be locked up for examination the next morning.

"You wasn't sharp enough this time, young fellow," said the policeman.

"Do you think I stole the pocket-book?" asked Dick, looking up in the officer's face.

"Oh, no, of course not! You wouldn't do anything of that kind," said the policeman, ironically.

"No, I wouldn't," said Dick, emphatically. "I've been poor enough and hungry enough sometimes, but I never stole. It's mean."

"What is your name?" said the officer. "I think I have seen you before."

"I used to black boots. Then my name was Ragged Dick. I know you. Your name is Jones."

"Ragged Dick! Yes, yes, I remember. You used to be pretty well out at elbows, if I remember rightly."

"My clothes used to be pretty well ventilated," said Dick, smiling faintly. "That was what made me so healthy, I expect. But did you ever know me to steal?"

"No," said the officer, "I can't say I have."

"I lived about the streets for more then eight years," said Dick, "and this is the first time I was ever arrested."

"What do you do now?"

"I'm in a store on Pearl Street."

"What wages do you get?"

"Ten dollars a week."

"Do you expect me to believe that story?"

"It's true."

"I don't believe there's a boy of your age in the city that gets such wages. You can't earn that amount."

"I jumped into the water, and saved the life of Mr. Rockwell's little boy. That's why he pays me so much."

"Where did you get that watch and chain? Are they gold?"

"Yes, Mrs. Rockwell gave them to me."

"It seems to me you're in luck."

"I wasn't very lucky to fall in with you," said Dick. "Don't you see what a fool I should be to begin to pick pockets now when I am so well off?"

"That's true," said the officer, who began to be shaken in his previous conviction of Dick's guilt.

"If I'd been going into that business, I would have tried it when I was poor and ragged. I should not have waited till now."

"If you didn't take the pocket-book, then how came it in your pocket?"

"I was looking in at a shop window, when I felt it thrust into my pocket. I suppose it was the thief who did it, to get out of the scrape himself."

"That might be. At any rate, I've known of such cases. If so, you are unlucky, and I am sorry for you. I can't let you go, because appearances are against you, but if there is anything I can do to help you I will."

"Thank you, Mr. Jones," said Dick, gratefully. "I did not want you to think me guilty. Where is the man that lost the pocket-book?"

"Just behind us."

"I should like to speak to him a moment."

The red-faced man, who was a little behind, came up, and Dick asked, quietly, "What makes you think I took your pocket-book, sir?"

"Wasn't it found in your pocket, you young rascal?" said the other, irritably.

"Yes," said Dick.

"And isn't that enough?"

"Not if somebody else put it there," said Dick.

"That's a likely story."

"It's a true story."

"Can you identify this as the boy who robbed you, and whom you saw running?"

"No," said the red-faced man, rather unwillingly. "My eyesight is not very good, but I've no doubt this is the young rascal."

"Well, that must be decided. You must appear to-morrow morning to prefer your complaint."

"Mind you don't let the rascal escape," said the other.

"I shall carry him to the station-house, where he will be safe."

"That's right, I'll make an example of him. He won't pick my pocket again in a hurry."

"I hope the judge won't be so sure that I am guilty," said Dick. "If he is, it'll go hard with me."

"Why don't you call your employer to testify to your good character?"

"That's a good idea. Can I write a note to him, and to another friend?"

"Yes; but perhaps the mail wouldn't carry them in time."

"I will send a messenger. Can I do so?"

"When we get to the station-house I will see that you have a chance to send. Here we are."

Escorted by the officer, and followed by his accuser, Dick entered. There was a railing at the upper end of the room, and behind it a desk at which sat a captain of the squad.

The officer made his report, which, though fair and impartial, still was sufficient to cause our hero's commitment for trial.

"What is your name?" questioned the captain.

Dick thought it best to be straightforward, and, though he winced at the idea of his name appearing in the daily papers, answered in a manly tone, "Richard Hunter."

"Of what nation?"

"American."

"Where were you born?"

"In this city."

"What is your age?"

"Sixteen years."

These answers were recorded, and, as Dick expressed a desire to communicate with his friends before trial, permission was given him to write to them, and the trial was appointed for the next morning at the Tombs. The red-faced man certified that his wallet contained nine dollars and sixty-two cents, which was found to be correct. He agreed to be present the next morning to prefer his charge, and with such manifest pleasure that he was not retained, as it sometimes happens, to insure his appearance.

"I will find a messenger to carry your notes," said the friendly officer.

"Thank you," said Dick. "I will take care that you are paid for your trouble."

"I require no pay except what I have to pay the messenger."

Dick was escorted to a cell for safe-keeping. He quickly dashed off a letter to Mr. Murdock, fearing that Mr. Rockwell might not be in the store. It was as follows:—

"MR. MURDOCK,—What will you think when I tell you that I have been unlucky enough to be arrested on suspicion of picking a man's pocket? The real thief slipped the wallet into my pocket as I was looking into a shop window, and it was found on me. I couldn't prove my innocence, so here I am at the station-house. They will think strange at the store because I am absent. Will you tell Mr. Rockwell privately what has detained me; but don't tell Mr. Gilbert. He don't like me any too well, and would believe me guilty at once, or pretend he did. I am sure you won't believe I would do such a thing, or Mr. Rockwell either. Will you come and see me to-night? I am to be tried to-morrow morning. I aint very proud of the hotel where I am stopping, but they didn't give me much choice in the matter.

"RICHARD HUNTER."

"Station-House, Franklin Street."

The other letter was to Fosdick; here it is:—

"DEAR FOSDICK,—I didn't much think when I left you this morning that I should be writing to you from the station-house before night. I'll tell you how it happened." [Here follows a detailed account, which is omitted, as the reader is already acquainted with all the circumstances.] "Of course they will wonder at the boarding-house where I am. If Miss Peyton or Mr. Clifton inquires after me to-night, you can say that I am detained by business of importance. That's true enough. I wish it wasn't. As soon as dinner is over, I wish you'd come and see me. I don't know if you can, not being acquainted with the rules of this hotel. I shan't stop here again very soon, if I can help it. There's a woman in the next cell, who was arrested for fighting. She is swearing frightfully. It almost makes me sick to be in such a place. It's pretty hard to have this happen to me just when I was getting along so well. But I hope it'll all come out right. Your true friend,

"DICK.

"P.S.—I've given my watch and chain to the officer to keep for me. Gold watches aint fashionable here, and I didn't want them to think me putting on airs.

"Station-House, Franklin Street."

After Dick had written these letters he was left to himself. His reflections, as may readily be supposed, were not the most pleasant. What would they think at the boarding-house, if they should find what kind of business it was that had detained him! Even if he was acquitted, some might suppose that he was really guilty. But there was a worse contingency. He might be unable to prove his innocence, and might be found guilty. In that case he would be sent to the Island. Dick shuddered at the thought. Just when he began to feel himself respectable, it was certainly bad to meet with such hard luck. What, too, would Mr. Greyson and Ida think? He had been so constant at the Sunday school that his absence would be sure to be noticed, and he knew that his former mode of life would make his guilt more readily believed in the present instance.

"If Ida should think me a pick-pocket!" thought poor Dick, and the thought made him miserable enough. The fact was, that Ida, by her vivacity and lively manners, and her evident partiality for his society, had quite won upon Dick, who considered her by all odds the nicest girl he had ever seen. I don't mean to say that Dick was in love,—at least not yet. Both he and Ida were too young for that; but he was certainly quite an admirer of the young lady. Again, if he were convicted, he would have to give up the party to which he had been invited, and he could never hope to get another invitation.

All these reflections helped to increase Dick's unhappiness. I doubt if he had ever felt so unhappy in all his life. But it never once occurred to him that his arrest was brought about by the machinations of his enemies. He hadn't chanced to see Micky Maguire, and had no suspicion that it was he who dropped the wallet into his pocket. Still less did he suspect that Gilbert's hostility had led him so far as to conspire with such a boy as Micky against him. It was lucky that he did not know this, or he would have felt still more unhappy.

But it is now time to turn to Micky Maguire and Mr. Gilbert, whose joint scheme had met with so much success.



CHAPTER XIV.

MICKY MAGUIRE'S DISAPPOINTMENT.

Micky Maguire waited until Dick was actually on the way to the station-house, and then started for Pearl Street to acquaint Gilbert with the success of his machinations. His breast swelled with triumph at the advantage he had gained over his enemy.

"May be he'll keep his 'cheerin' reflections' to himself another time," thought Micky. "He won't have much to say about my going to the Island when he's been there himself. They won't stand none of his airs there, I'm thinkin'."

There was another pleasant aspect to the affair. Micky had not only triumphed over his enemy, but he was going to be paid for it. This was the stipulation between Gilbert and himself. The book-keeper had not promised any definite sum, but Micky, in speculating upon the proper compensation for his service, fixed upon five dollars as about what he ought to receive. Like many others who count their chickens before they are hatched, he had already begun to consider what he would buy with it when he had got it.

Now, only the day previous, Micky had noticed hanging in a window in Chatham Street, a silver watch, and chain attached, which was labelled "GENUINE SILVER, ONLY FIVE DOLLARS." Since Micky had been the possessor of a blue coat with brass buttons, his thoughts had dwelt more than ever before on his personal appearance, and the watch had struck his fancy. He did not reflect much on the probable quality of a silver watch which could be sold for five dollars, and a chain thrown into the bargain. It was a watch, at any rate, and would make a show. Besides, Dick wore a watch, and Micky felt that he did not wish to be outdone. As soon as he received his reward he meant to go and buy it.

It was therefore in a very cheerful frame of mind that Micky walked up in front of Rockwell & Cooper's store, and took his stand, occasionally glancing at the window.

Ten minutes passed away, and still he remained unnoticed. He grew impatient, and determined to enter, making his business an excuse.

Entering, he saw through the open door of the office, the book-keeper, bending over the desk writing.

"Shine yer boots?" he asked.

Gilbert was about to answer angrily in the negative, when looking up he recognized his young confederate. His manner changed, and he said, "Yes, I believe I'll have a shine; but you must be quick about it."

Micky swung his box from his shoulder, and, sinking upon his knees, seized his brush, and went to work scientifically.

"Any news?" asked Gilbert, in a low voice.

"Yes, mister, I've done it," said Micky.

"Have you managed to trap him?"

"Yes, I left him on his way to the station-house."

"How did you manage it?"

"I grabbed an old fellow's wallet, and dropped it into Dick's pocket. He pulled it out, and while he was lookin' at it, up came the 'copp' and nabbed him."

"How about the man from whom the wallet was taken?"

"He came up puffin', and swore Dick was the chap that stole it."

"So he was carried off to the station-house?"

"Yes; he's there safe enough."

"Then we shall have to carry on business without him," said Gilbert, coolly. "I hope he will enjoy himself at his new quarters."

"Maybe they'll send him to the Island," said Micky, beginning his professional operations upon the second boot.

"Very likely," said Gilbert. "I suppose you've been there before this."

"Wot if I have?" said Micky, in rather a surly tone, for he did not relish the allusion.

"No offence," said Gilbert. "I only meant that if you have ever been there, you can judge whether your friend Dick will enjoy it."

"Not a great deal," said Micky; "but you needn't call him my friend. I hate him."

"Your enemy, then. But get through as soon as possible."

Micky struck his brush upon the floor to indicate that the job was finished, and, rising, waited for his fee.

Gilbert took from his pocket ten cents and handed him.

"That's for the shine," he said; "and here's something for the other matter."

So saying, he placed in the hand of the boot-black a bank-note.

Micky glanced at it, and his countenance changed ominously, when he perceived the denomination. It was a one-dollar bill!

"It's one dollar," he said.

"Isn't that enough?"

"No, it isn't," he answered, sullenly. "I might 'ave been nabbed myself. I can't afford to work on no such terms."

Micky was right. It certainly was a very small sum to receive for taking such a risk, apart from all moral considerations, and his dissatisfaction can hardly be wondered at. But Gilbert was not of a generous nature. In fact he was disposed to be mean, and in the present instance he had even expected to get the credit of being generous. A dollar, he thought, must seem an immense sum to a ragged boot-black. But Micky thought differently, and Gilbert felt irritated at his ingratitude.

"It's all you'll get," said he, roughly.

"Then you'd better get somebody else to do your dirty work next time, mister," said Micky, angrily.

"Clear out, you young blackguard!" exclaimed Gilbert, his temper by this time fully aroused. "Clear out, if you don't want to be kicked out!"

"Maybe you'll wish you'd given me more," said Micky, sullenly picking up his box, and leaving the office.

"What's the matter?" asked Mr. Murdock, who happened to come up just as Micky went into the street, and heard the last words of the altercation.

"Oh," said Gilbert, carelessly, "he wasn't satisfied with his pay. I gave him ten cents, but the young rascal wanted more."

As he said this, he turned back to his desk.

"I wonder whether Gilbert's going anywhere," thought the head clerk. "I never knew him so extravagant before. He must be going out this evening."

Just then it occurred to him that Dick had been absent longer than usual, and, as he needed his services, he asked, "Has Richard returned, Mr. Gilbert?"

"I haven't seen him."

"Did he go out at the usual time?"

"Yes."

"What can have detained him?" said Mr. Murdock, thoughtfully.

"He's probably fallen in with some of his old friends, and forgotten all about his duties."

"That is not his way," said Mr. Murdock, quietly, as he walked away. He understood very well Mr. Gilbert's hostility to Dick, and that the latter was not likely to receive a very favorable judgment at his hands.

Five minutes later a boy entered the store, and, looking about him a moment in uncertainty, said, "I want to see Mr. Murdock."

"I am Mr. Murdock," he answered.

"Then this note is for you."

The clerk felt instinctively that the note was from Dick, and, not wishing Gilbert to hear the conversation, motioned the boy to follow him to the back part of the store.

Then he opened and read the note quickly.

"Did Richard Hunter give this to you?" he asked.

"No," said Tim Ryan, for that was his name. "It was the 'copp' that arrested him."

"I suppose a 'copp' is a policeman."

"Yes, sir."

"Were you present when he was arrested?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you know anything about it?"

"Yes, I seed it all."

"You saw the wallet taken?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did Richard take it?"

"You mean Dick?" said Tim, interrogatively, for Richard was to him a strange name.

"No, he didn't, then. He wouldn't steal. I never know'd him to."

"Then you know Dick?"

"Yes, sir. I've knowed him ever since I was so high," indicating a point about three feet above the floor.

"Then who did take it, if not he?"

"Micky Maguire."

"Who is he?"

"He blacks boots."

"Then how did it happen that he was not arrested?"

"Micky was smart enough to drop the wallet into Dick's pocket as he was standin' before a shop winder. Then he got out of the way, and Dick was nabbed by the 'copp.'"

"Is this Micky of whom you speak a friend of yours?"

"No; he likes to bully small boys."

"Then why didn't you tell the officer he had arrested the wrong boy?"

"I wanted to," said Tim, "for Dick's always been kind to me; but I was afraid Micky would give me a beatin' when he got free. Then there was another reason."

"What was that?"

"It's mean to tell of a fellow."

"Isn't it meaner to let an innocent boy get punished, when you might save him by telling?"

"Maybe it is," said Tim, perplexed.

"My lad," continued Mr. Murdock, "you say Dick has been kind to you. You now have an opportunity to repay all he has ever done, by clearing him from this false charge, which you can easily do."

"I'll do it," said Tim, stoutly. "I don't care if Micky does lick me for it."

"By the way," said Mr. Murdock, with a sudden thought, "what is the appearance of this Micky Maguire?"

"He's rather stout, and has freckles."

"Does he wear a blue coat, with large brass buttons?"

"Yes," said Tim, in surprise. "Do you know him?"

"I have seen him this morning," said Mr. Murdock. "Wait a minute, and I will give you a line to Dick; or rather it will not be necessary. If you can get a chance, let him know that I am going to call on him this afternoon. Will you be at the station-house, or near it, at six o'clock?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then we can arrange about your appearing as a witness at the trial. Here is half a dollar for your trouble in bringing the note."

"I don't want it, sir," said Tim. "I don't want to take anything for doing a good turn to Dick."

"But you have been prevented from earning money. You had better take it."

But Tim, who was a warm-hearted Irish boy, steadfastly refused, and left the store in quest of Henderson's hat and cap store, having also a note to deliver to Fosdick.

"So that was Micky Maguire who was here a little while since," said Mr. Murdock to himself. "It seems singular that immediately after getting Richard into trouble, he should have come here where he was employed. Can it be that Gilbert had a previous acquaintance with him?"

The more Mr. Murdock reflected, the more perplexed he became. It did cross his mind that the two might be in league against Dick; but then, on the other hand, they evidently parted on bad terms, and this seemed to make such a combination improbable. So he gave up puzzling himself about it, reflecting that time would clear up what seemed mysterious about the affair.

Gilbert, on his part, could not help wondering on what errand Tim Ryan came to Mr. Murdock. He suspected he might be a messenger from Dick, but thought it best not to inquire, and Mr. Murdock did not volunteer any information. When the store closed, the head clerk bent his steps towards the station-house.



CHAPTER XV.

THE FRANKLIN STREET STATION-HOUSE.

The station-house to which Dick had been conveyed is situated in that part of Franklin Street which lies between Centre and Baxter Streets. The last is one of the most wretched streets in the city, lined with miserable tenement houses, policy shops, and second-hand clothing stores. Whoever passes through it in the evening, will do well to look to the safety of his pocket-book and watch, if he is imprudent enough to carry either in a district where the Ten Commandments are unknown, or unregarded.

The station-house is an exception to the prevailing squalidness, being kept with great neatness. Mr. Murdock ascended the steps, and found himself in a large room, one side of which was fenced off by a railing. Behind this was a desk, at which sat the officer in charge. To him, Mr. Murdock directed himself.

"Have you a boy, named Richard Hunter, in the house?"

"Yes," said the sergeant, referring to his minutes. "He was brought in this afternoon, charged with picking a gentleman's pocket."

"There is some mistake about this. He is as honest as I am."

"I have nothing to do with that. He will have a fair trial to-morrow morning. All I have to do is to keep him in safe custody till then."

"Of course. Where is he?"

"In a cell below."

"Can I see him?"

"If you wish."

The officer summoned an attendant, and briefly ordered him to conduct Mr. Murdock to Dick's cell.

"This way, sir," said the attendant.

Mr. Murdock followed him through a large rear room, which is intended for the accommodation of the officers. Then, descending some steps into the courtyard, he descended thence into the apartments in the basement. Here are the cells for the temporary detention of offenders who are not at once sent to the Tombs for trial. The passages are whitewashed and the cells look very neat. They are on either side, with a grating, so that one passing along can look into them readily. They are probably about seven feet long, by four or five in width. A narrow raised bedstead, covered with a pallet, occupies one side, on which the prisoner can either lie or sit, as he pleases.

"How are you, boss?" asked a negro woman, who had been arrested for drunkenness, swaying forward, as Mr. Murdock passed, and nearly losing her balance as she did so. "Can't you give me a few cents to buy some supper?"

Turning from this revolting spectacle, Mr. Murdock followed his guide to the second cell beyond where our hero was confined.

"Is it you, Mr. Murdock?" exclaimed our hero, joyfully jumping to his feet. "I am glad to see you."

"And I am glad to see you; but I wish it were somewhere else," said Mr. Murdock.

"So do I," said Dick. "I aint partial to this hotel, though the accommodations is gratooitous, and the company is very select."

"I see you will have your joke, Dick, even in such a place."

"I don't feel so jolly as I might," said Dick. "I never was in the station-house before; but I shall be lucky if I don't get sent to a worse place."

"Have you any idea who took the wallet which was found in your pocket?"

"No," said Dick.

"Do you know a boy called Micky Maguire?" proceeded Mr. Murdock.

"Yes," said Dick, looking up in surprise. "Micky used to be a great friend of mine. He'd be delighted if he only knew that I was enjoyin' the hospitality of the government."

"He does know it," said Mr. Murdock, quietly.

"How do you know?" asked Dick, quickly.

"Because it was he that stole the wallet and put it in your pocket."

"How did you find out?" asked Dick, eagerly.

"Do you know a boy named Tim Ryan?"

"Yes; he's a good boy."

"It was he that brought me your note. He saw the whole proceeding."

"Why didn't he tell, and stop my bein' arrested, then?"

"I asked him that; but he said he was afraid Micky would beat him when he found out. But he is a friend of yours, and he stands ready to testify what he knows, at your trial, to-morrow morning."

"That's lucky," said Dick, breathing a sigh of relief. "So it was Micky that served me the trick. He always loved me like a brother, Micky did, but I didn't expect he'd steal for my benefit. I'm very much obliged to him, but I'd rather dispense with such little favors another time."

"You will be surprised to learn that Micky came round to our store this afternoon."

"What for?" questioned Dick, in amazement.

"I don't know whether he came by accident or design; but Mr. Gilbert employed him to black his boots."

"Mr. Gilbert!"

"Yes. They seemed to be conversing earnestly; but I was too far off to hear what was said. Finally, Gilbert appeared to get angry, and drove the boy out."

"That's strange!" said Dick, thoughtfully. "Mr. Gilbert loves me about as much as Micky does."

"Yes, there seems to be some mystery about it. We may find out some time what it is. But here is your friend Fosdick."

"How are you, Fosdick?" hailed Dick from his cell. "I'm holdin' a little levee down here. Did you receive my card of invitation?"

"I've been uneasy all the afternoon, Dick," said Fosdick. "Ever since I heard that you were here, I've been longing to come and see you."

"Then you aint ashamed of me, even if I am in the station-house?"

"Of course I know you don't deserve to be here. Tell me all about it. I only got a chance to speak a minute with Tim Ryan, for there were customers waiting."

"I'll tell you all I know myself," said Dick. "I'm sorry to keep you standing, but the door is locked, and I've accidentally lost the key. So I can't invite you into my parlor, as the spider invited the fly."

"Don't stand on ceremony, Dick. I'd just as lieves stay outside."

"So would I," said Dick, rather ruefully.

The story was told over again, with such new light as Mr. Murdock had been able to throw upon it.

"It's just like Micky," said Fosdick. "He's a bad fellow."

"It was rather a mean trick," said Dick; "but he hasn't had a very good bringin' up, or maybe he'd be a better boy."

That he should have spoken thus, at the moment when he was suffering from Micky's malice, showed a generosity of feeling which was characteristic of Dick. No one was more frank, open, or free from malice than he, though always ready to stand up for his rights when he considered them assailed. It is this quality in Dick, joined to his manly spirit, which makes him a favorite with me, as he is also with you, let me hope, young reader.

"It'll come out right, Dick," said Fosdick, cheerfully. "Tim Ryan's testimony will clear you. I feel a good deal better about it now than I did this afternoon, when I didn't know how things were likely to go with you."

"I hope so," said Dick. "But I'm afraid you won't get any supper, if you stay any longer with me."

"How about your supper, Dick?" asked Fosdick, with sudden thought. "Do they give you any in this establishment?"

"No," said Dick; "this hotel's on the European system, with improvements. You get your lodgin' for nothing, and nothing to eat along with it. I don't like the system much. I don't think I could stand it more'n a week without its hurtin' my constitution."

"I'll go out and get you something, Dick," said Fosdick, "if the rules of the establishment allow it. Shall I?"

"Well," said Dick, "I think I might eat a little, though the place isn't very stimulatin' to the appetite."

"What shall I bring you?"

"I aint particular," said Dick.

Just then the attendant came along, and Fosdick inquired if he would be allowed to bring his friend something to eat.

"Certainly," was the reply. "We provide nothing ourselves, as the prisoners only stay with us a few hours."

"I'll be right back," said Fosdick.

Not far from the station-house, Fosdick found a baker's shop, where he bought some bread and cakes, with which he started to return. As he was nearing the station-house, he caught sight of Micky Maguire hovering about the door. Micky smiled significantly as he saw Fosdick and his burden.

"Where are you carryin' that?" he asked.

"Why do you ask?" said Fosdick, who could not feel very friendly to the author of Dick's misfortune.

"Never mind why," said Micky. "I know well enough. It's for your friend Dick. How does he like his new lodgins'?"

"How do you like them? You've been there often enough."

"Don't be impudent, or I'll lam' ye," said Micky, scowling.

As Fosdick was considerably smaller than himself, Micky might have ventured upon an assault, but deemed it imprudent in the immediate vicinity of the station-house.

"Give my compliments to Dick," he said. "I hope he'll sleep well."

To this Fosdick returned no answer, but, entering the building, descended to Dick's temporary quarters. He passed the bread and cake through the grating, and Dick, cheered by the hope of an acquittal on the morrow, and a speedy recovery of his freedom, partook with a good appetite.

"Can't you give me a mouthful, boss?" muttered the negro woman before mentioned, as she caught sight of Fosdick's load.

He passed a cake through the grating, which she seized eagerly, and devoured with appetite.

"I think I must be going," said Mr. Murdock, consulting his watch, "or my wife and children won't know what has become of me."

"Good-night, Mr. Murdock," said Dick. "Thank you for your kindness."

"Good-night, Richard. Keep up your courage."

"I'll try to."

Fosdick stopped longer. At last he went away, and our hero, left to himself, lay down upon his pallet and tried to get to sleep.



CHAPTER XVI.

ROSWELL CRAWFORD RETIRES FROM BUSINESS.

"Can you send this home for me?" asked a lady in Hall & Turner's store about three o'clock in the afternoon of the day on which Dick, as we have related, was arrested.

"Certainly, madam. Where shall it be sent?" asked the clerk.

"No. 47 West Fortieth Street," was the reply.

"Very well, it shall be sent up immediately. Here, Roswell."

Roswell Crawford came forward not very willingly. He had no great liking for the task which he saw would be required of him. Fortieth Street was at least a mile and a half distant, and he had already just returned from a walk in a different direction. Besides, the bundle was a large one, containing three dress patterns. He did not think it very suitable for a gentleman's son to be seen carrying such a large bundle through the streets.

"Why don't you send Edward?" he said, complainingly. "He doesn't do half as much as I."

"I shall send whom I please," said the clerk, sharply. "You wouldn't do anything if you could help it."

"I won't carry bundles much longer," said Roswell. "You put all the heaviest bundles off upon me."

Roswell's back being turned, he did not observe Mr. Turner, who had come up as he was speaking.

"What are you complaining about?" asked that gentleman.

Roswell turned, and colored a little when he saw his employer.

"What is the matter?" repeated Mr. Turner.

"Mr. Evans always gives me the largest bundles to carry," said Roswell.

"He is always complaining of having to carry bundles," said the clerk. "He says it isn't suitable work for a gentleman's son."

"I have noticed it," said Mr. Turner. "On the whole, I think, Mr. Crawford," he said, with mock deference, "I think you have mistaken your vocation in entering a dry-goods store. I advise you to seek some more gentlemanly employment. At the end of the week, you are at liberty to leave my employment for one better suited to you."

"I'm ready to go now," said Roswell, sulkily.

"Very well; if you desire it, I will not insist upon your remaining. If you will come up to the desk, you shall receive what is due you."

It was somewhat humiliating to Roswell to feel that his services were so readily dispensed with. Still he had never liked the place, and heartily disliked carrying bundles. By going at once, he would get rid of the large bundle to be carried to West Fortieth Street. Congratulating himself, therefore, on the whole, on escaping from what he regarded as a degrading servitude, he walked up to the desk in a dignified manner, and received the wages due him.

"I hope you will find some more congenial employment," said Mr. Turner, who paid him the amount of his wages.

"I have no doubt I shall," said Roswell, loftily. "My father was a gentleman, and our family has considerable influence."

"Well, I wish you success. Good-by."

"Good-by," said Roswell, and walked out of the shop with head erect.

He did not quite like going home at once, as explanation would be rather awkward under the circumstances. He accordingly crossed over to Fifth Avenue, considering that the most suitable promenade for a gentleman's son. He could not help regarding with some envy the happy possessors of the elegant buildings which he passed. Why had partial Fate denied him that fortune which would have enabled him to live in this favored locality?

"Plenty of snobs have got money," he thought. "How much better I could use it than they! I wish I were rich! You wouldn't catch me slaving my life out in a dry-goods store, or any other."

This was undoubtedly true. Work of any kind had no charms for Roswell. To walk up the avenue swinging a dandy cane, dressed in the height of the fashion, or, what was better yet, sitting back luxuriously in an elegant carriage drawn by a dashing span; such was what he regarded himself most fit for. But, unfortunately, he was not very likely to realize his wishes. The desire to enjoy wealth doesn't bring it, and the tastes of a gentleman are not a very good stock to begin life with. So Roswell sauntered along in rather a discontented frame of mind until he reached Madison Park, where he sat down on a bench, and listlessly watched some boys who were playing there.

"Hallo, Roswell!" said one of his acquaintances, coming up by chance. "How do you happen to be here?"

"Why shouldn't I be here?"

"I thought you were in a store somewhere on Sixth Avenue."

"Well, I was, but I have left it."

"When did you leave it?"

"To-day."

"Got sacked, hey?"

"Sacked," in the New York vernacular, means discharged from a place. The idea of having it supposed that he had been "sacked" was not pleasing to Roswell's pride. He accordingly answered, "I never was 'sacked' in my life. Besides, it's a low word, and I never use it."

"Well, you know what I mean. Did they turn you off?"

"No, they didn't. They would have been glad to have me stay."

"Why didn't you then?"

"I didn't like the business."

"Dry goods,—wasn't it?"

"Yes, a retail dry-goods store. If I ever go into that line again, it'll be in a wholesale store. There's a chance there for a man to rise."

"You don't call yourself a man yet,—do you?"

"I call myself a gentleman," said Roswell, shortly.

"What are you going to do now?"

"I'm in no hurry about a new place. I shall look round a little."

"Well, success to you. I must be getting back to the shop."

"What are you doing?"

"I'm learning a trade."

"Oh!" said Roswell, turning up his nose slightly, which was quite easy for him to do, as nature had given that organ an upward turn. He thought all trades low, and resolved hereafter to hold as little communication as possible with the boy who had so far demeaned himself as to be learning one. That was worse than being in a dry-goods store, and carrying around bundles.

Towards six o'clock Roswell rose from his seat, and sauntered towards Clinton Place, which was nearly a mile distant. He entered the house a little before dinner.

"Are you not earlier than usual, Roswell?" asked his mother.

"I've left the store," he said, abruptly.

"Left the store!" echoed his mother, in some dismay. "Why?"

"Because they don't know how to treat me. It's no fit place for a gentleman's son."

"I am sorry, Roswell," said Mrs. Crawford, who, like her son, was "poor and proud," and found the four dollars he earned weekly of advantage. "I'm afraid you have been foolish."

"Listen, mother, and I'll tell you all about it," he said.

Roswell gave his explanation, which, it need hardly be said, was very favorable to himself, and Mrs. Crawford was finally brought to believe that Hall & Turner were low people, with whom it was not suitable for one of her son's gentlemanly tastes to be placed. His vindication was scarcely over, when the bell rang, and his Cousin Gilbert was admitted.

Mr. Gilbert entered briskly, and with a smiling face. He felt unusually complaisant, having succeeded in his designs against our hero.

"Well, James," said Mrs. Crawford, "you look in better spirits than I feel."

"What's happened amiss?"

"Roswell has given up his place."

"Been discharged, you mean."

"No," said Roswell, "I left the place of my own accord."

"What for?"

"I don't like the firm, nor the business. I wish I were in Mr. Rockwell's."

"Well," said Gilbert, "perhaps I can get you in there."

"Has the boot-black left?"

"He's found another place," said Gilbert, smiling at what he regarded as a good joke.

"You don't mean to say he has left a place where he was earning ten dollars a week?" said Mrs. Crawford, in surprise. "Where is this new place that you speak of?"

"In the station-house."

"Is he in the station-house?" asked Roswell, eagerly.

"That is what I hear."

"What's he been doing?"

"Charged with picking a pocket."

"Well, I do hope Mr. Rockwell will now see his folly in engaging a boy from the streets," said Mrs. Crawford, charitably concluding that there was no doubt of our hero's guilt.

"What'll be done with him, Cousin James?" asked Roswell.

"He'll be sent to the Island, I suppose."

"He may get clear."

"I think not. Circumstances are very much against him, I hear."

"And will you try to get me in, Cousin James?"

"I'll do what I can. Perhaps it may be well for you to drop in to-morrow about ten o'clock."

"All right,—I'll do it."

Both Mrs. Crawford's and Roswell's spirits revived wonderfully, and Mr. Gilbert, too, seemed unusually lively. And all because poor Dick had got into difficulties, and seemed in danger of losing both his place and his good name.

"It's lucky I left Hall & Turner's just as I did!" thought Roswell, complacently. "May be they'd like to engage the boot-black when he gets out of prison. But I guess he'll have to go back to blacking boots. That's what he's most fit for."



CHAPTER XVII.

DICK'S ACQUITTAL.

After his interview with Mr. Murdock and Henry Fosdick, Dick felt considerably relieved. He not only saw that his friends were convinced of his innocence, but, through Tim Ryan's testimony, he saw that there was a reasonable chance of getting clear. He had begun to set a high value on respectability, and he felt that now he had a character to sustain.

The night wore away at last. The pallet on which he lay was rather hard; but Dick had so often slept in places less comfortable that he cared little for that. When he woke up, he did not at first remember where he was, but he very soon recalled the circumstances, and that his trial was close at hand.

"I hope Mr. Murdock won't oversleep himself," thought our hero. "If he does, it'll be a gone case with me."

At an early hour the attendant of the police station went the rounds, and Dick was informed that he was wanted. Brief space was given for the arrangement of the toilet. In fact, those who avail themselves of the free lodgings provided at the station-house rarely pay very great attention to their dress or personal appearance. Dick, however, had a comb in his pocket, and carefully combed his hair. He also brushed off his coat as well as he could; he also critically inspected his shoes, not forgetting his old professional habits.

"I wish I had a brush and some blackin'," he said to himself. "My shoes would look all the better for a good shine."

But time was up, and, under the escort of a policeman, Dick was conveyed to the Tombs. Probably all my readers have heard of this building. It is a large stone building, with massive columns, broad on the ground, but low. It is not only used for a prison, but there are two rooms on the first floor used for the holding of courts. Into the larger one of these Dick was carried. He looked around him anxiously, and to his great joy perceived that not only Mr. Murdock was on hand, but honest Tim Ryan, whose testimony was so important to his defence. Dick was taken forward to the place provided for those awaiting trial, and was obliged to await his turn. One or two cases, about which there was no doubt, including the colored woman arrested for drunkenness, were summarily disposed of, and the next case was called. The policeman who had arrested Dick presented himself with our hero.

Dick was so neatly dressed, and looked so modest and self-possessed, that the judge surveyed him with some surprise.

"What is this lad charged with?" he demanded.

"With taking a wallet from a gentleman's pocket," said the policeman.

"Did you arrest him?"

"I did."

"Did you take him in the act?"

"No; I did not see him take it."

"What have you to say, prisoner? Are you guilty or not guilty?" said the judge, turning to Dick.

"Not guilty," said Dick, quietly.

"State why you made the arrest," said the judge.

"I saw him with the wallet in his hand."

"Is the gentleman who had his pocket picked, present?"

"He is."

"Summon him."

The red-faced man came forward, and gave his testimony. He stated that he was standing on the sidewalk, when he felt a hand thrust into his pocket, and forcibly withdrawn. He immediately felt for his wallet, and found it gone. Turning, he saw a boy running, and immediately gave chase.

"Was the boy you saw running the prisoner?"

"I suppose it was."

"You suppose? Don't you know?"

"Of course it was, or he would not have been found with the wallet in his hand."

"But you cannot identify him from personal observation?"

The red-faced man admitted with some reluctance that his eyesight was very poor, and he did not catch sight of the boy till he was too far off to be identified.

"This is not so clear as it might be," said the judge. "Still, appearances are against the prisoner, and as the wallet was found in his possession, he must be found guilty, unless that fact can be satisfactorily explained."

"I have a witness who can explain it," said Dick.

"Where is he?"

Tim Ryan, who understood that his evidence was now wanted, came forward.

After being sworn, the judge asked, "What is your name?"

"Tim Ryan, sir."

"Where do you live?"

"In Mulberry Street."

"Tell what you know of this case."

"I was standing in Chatham Street, when I saw the ould gintleman with the red face (here the prosecutor scowled at Tim, not relishing the description which was given of him) standing at the corner of Pearl Street. A boy came up, and put his hand into his pocket, and then run away as fast as his legs could carry him, wid the wallet in his hand."

"Who was this boy? Do you know him?"

"Yes, sir."

"Tell his name."

"It was Micky Maguire," said Tim, reluctantly.

"And who is Micky Maguire?"

"He blacks boots."

"Then if this Micky Maguire took the wallet, how happened it that it was found in this boy's possession?"

"I can tell that," said Tim. "I ran after Micky to see if he'd get off wid the wallet. He hadn't gone but a little way when I saw him slip it into Dick's pocket."

"I suppose you mean by Dick, the prisoner at the bar?"

"Yes, sir."

"And what became of this Micky?"

"He stopped runnin' after he'd got rid of the pocket-book, and a minute after, up came the 'copp,' and took Dick."

"Why didn't you come forward, and explain the mistake?"

"I was afraid Micky'd beat me."

"Do you know this Micky Maguire?" said the judge, turning to the officer.

"I do."

"What is his reputation?"

"Bad. He's been at the Island three or four times already."

"Did you see him anywhere about when you made the arrest?"

"I did."

"Do you know this boy who has just testified?"

"Yes. He is a good boy."

"The case seems a clear one. The prisoner is discharged from custody. Arrest Micky Maguire on the same charge as early as possible."

The next case was called, and Dick was free.

Mr. Murdock came forward, and took him by the hand, which he shook heartily.

"I congratulate you on your acquittal," he said.

"I feel a little better than I did," said Dick. "Tim, you're a good fellow," he said, clasping Tim's hand. "I wouldn't have got off, if it hadn't been for you."

"I ought to do that much for you, Dick, when you've been so kind to me."

"How are you getting along now, Tim?"

"Pretty well. Mother's got so she can work and we're doin' well. When she was sick, it was pretty hard."

"Here's something to help you along," said Dick, and he drew a bill from his pocket.

"Five dollars!" said Tim, in surprise.

"You can buy some new clothes, Tim."

"I ought not to take so much as that, Dick."

"It's all right, Tim. There's some more where that comes from."

They were in Centre Street by this time. Fosdick came up hurriedly.

"Have you got off, Dick?" he asked, eagerly.

"Yes, Fosdick. There's no chance of my being entertained at the expense of the city."

"I didn't expect the trial was coming off so early. Tell me all about it."

"What did they say at the house at my being away?" asked Dick.

"Miss Peyton inquired particularly after you. I said, as you directed me, that you were detained by important business."

"What did she say then?"

Dick was so particular in his inquiries, fearing lest any suspicion should have been formed of the real cause which had detained him. There was no reason for it; but it had always been a matter of pride with him in his vagabond days that he had never been arrested on any charge, and it troubled him that he should even have been suspected of theft.

"You are fishing for compliments, Dick," said Fosdick.

"How do you make that out?"

"You want to know what Miss Peyton said. I believe you are getting interested in her."

"When I am, just send me to a lunatic asylum," said Dick.

"I am afraid you are getting sarcastic, Dick. However, not to keep you in suspense, Miss Peyton said that you were one of the wittiest young men she knew of, and you were quite the life of the house."

"I suppose I ought to blush," said Dick; "but I'm a prey to hunger just now, and it's too much of an effort."

"I'll excuse you this time," said Fosdick. "As to the hunger, that's easily remedied. We shall get home to breakfast, and be in good time too."

Fosdick was right. They were the first to seat themselves at the table. Mr. Clifton came in directly afterwards. Dick felt a momentary embarrassment.

"What would he say," thought our hero, "if he knew where I passed the night?"

"Good-morning, Hunter," said Clifton. "You didn't favor us with your presence at dinner last evening."

"No," said Dick. "I was absent on very important business."

"Dining with your friend, the mayor, probably?"

"Well, no, not exactly," said Dick, "but I had some business with the city government."

"It seems to me that you're getting to be quite an important character."

"Thank you," said Dick. "I am glad to find that genius is sometimes appreciated."

Here Miss Peyton entered.

"Welcome, Mr. Hunter," she said. "We missed you last evening."

"I hope it didn't affect your appetite much," said Dick.

"But it did. I appeal to Mr. Fosdick whether I ate anything to speak of."

"I thought Miss Peyton had a better appetite than usual," said Fosdick.

"That is too bad of you, Mr. Fosdick," said Miss Peyton. "I'm sure I didn't eat more than my canary bird."

"Just the way it affected me," said Dick. "It always improves my appetite to see you eat, Miss Peyton."

Miss Peyton looked as if she hardly knew whether to understand this remark as complimentary or otherwise.

That evening, at the dinner-table, Clifton drew a copy of the "Express" from his pocket, and said, "By Jove, Hunter, here's a capital joke on you! I'll read it. 'A boy, named Richard Hunter, was charged with picking a pocket on Chatham Street; but it appearing that the theft was committed by another party, he was released from custody.'"

Dick's heart beat a little quicker while this was being read, but he maintained his self-possession.

"Of course," said he, "that was the important business that detained me. But I hope you won't mention it, for the sake of my family."

"I'd make the young rascal change his name, if I were you," said Clifton, "if he's going to get into the Police record."

"I think I shall," said Dick, "or maybe I'll change my own. You couldn't mention a highly respectable name that I could take,—could you?"

"Clifton is the most respectable name I know of," said the young gentleman owning that name.

"If you'll make me your heir, perhaps I'll adopt it."

"I'll divide my debts with you, and give you the biggest half," said Clifton.

It is unnecessary to pursue the conversation. Dick found to his satisfaction that no one at the table suspected that he was the Richard Hunter referred to in the "Express."



CHAPTER XVIII.

THE CUP AND THE LIP.

While Dick's night preceding the trial was an anxious one, Gilbert and Roswell Crawford passed a pleasant evening, and slept soundly.

"Do you think Mr. Rockwell would be willing to give me the same wages he has paid to the boot-black?" he inquired with interest.

"Perhaps he won't take you at all."

"I think he ought to pay some attention to your recommendation," said Mrs. Crawford. "You ought to have some influence with him."

"Of course," said Gilbert, "I shall do what I can in the matter; but it's a pity Roswell can't give better references."

"He's never been with a decent employer yet. He's been very unlucky about his places," said Mrs. Crawford.