Ragged Dick - Horatio Alger

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Chatham Street And Broadway

They were soon in Chatham Street, walking between rows of ready-made clothing shops, many of which had half their stock in trade exposed on the sidewalk. The proprietors of these establishments stood at the doors, watching attentively the passersby, extending urgent invitations to any who even glanced at the goods to enter.
"Walk in, young gentlemen," said a stout man, at the entrance of one shop.
"No, I thank you," replied Dick, "as the fly said to the spider."
"We're selling off at less than cost."
"Of course you be. That's where you makes your money," said Dick. "There aint nobody of any enterprise that pretends to make any profit on his goods."
The Chatham Street trader looked after our hero as if he didn't quite comprehend him; but Dick, without waiting for a reply, passed on with his companion.
In some of the shops auctions seemed to be going on.
"I am only offered two dollars, gentlemen, for this elegant pair of doeskin pants, made of the very best of cloth. It's a frightful sacrifice. Who'll give an eighth? Thank you, sir. Only seventeen shillings! Why the cloth cost more by the yard!"
This speaker was standing on a little platform haranguing to three men, holding in his hand meanwhile a pair of pants very loose in the legs, and presenting a cheap Bowery look.
Frank and Dick paused before the shop door, and finally saw them knocked down to rather a verdant-looking individual at three dollars.
"Clothes seem to be pretty cheap here," said Frank.
"Yes, but Baxter Street is the cheapest place."
"Is it?"

"Yes. Johnny Nolan got a whole rig-out there last week, for a dollar,--coat, cap, vest, pants, and shoes. They was very good measure, too, like my best clothes that I took off to oblige you."
"I shall know where to come for clothes next time," said Frank, laughing. "I had no idea the city was so much cheaper than the country. I suppose the Baxter Street tailors are fashionable?"
"In course they are. Me and Horace Greeley always go there for clothes. When Horace gets a new suit, I always have one made just like it; but I can't go the white hat. It aint becomin' to my style of beauty."
A little farther on a man was standing out on the sidewalk, distributing small printed handbills. One was handed to Frank, which he read as follows,--
"GRAND CLOSING-OUT SALE!--A variety of Beautiful and Costly Articles for Sale, at a Dollar apiece. Unparalleled Inducements! Walk in, Gentlemen!"
"Whereabouts is this sale?" asked Frank.
"In here, young gentlemen," said a black-whiskered individual, who appeared suddenly on the scene. "Walk in."
"Shall we go in, Dick?"
"It's a swindlin' shop," said Dick, in a low voice. "I've been there. That man's a regular cheat. He's seen me before, but he don't know me coz of my clothes."

"Step in and see the articles," said the man, persuasively. "You needn't buy, you know."
"Are all the articles worth more'n a dollar?" asked Dick.
"Yes," said the other, "and some worth a great deal more."
"Such as what?"
"Well, there's a silver pitcher worth twenty dollars."
"And you sell it for a dollar. That's very kind of you," said Dick, innocently.
"Walk in, and you'll understand it."
"No, I guess not," said Dick. "My servants is so dishonest that I wouldn't like to trust 'em with a silver pitcher. Come along, Frank. I hope you'll succeed in your charitable enterprise of supplyin' the public with silver pitchers at nineteen dollars less than they are worth."
"How does he manage, Dick?" asked Frank, as they went on.
"All his articles are numbered, and he makes you pay a dollar, and then shakes some dice, and whatever the figgers come to, is the number of the article you draw. Most of 'em aint worth sixpence."
A hat and cap store being close at hand, Dick and Frank went in. For seventy-five cents, which Frank insisted on paying, Dick succeeded in getting quite a neat-looking cap, which corresponded much better with his appearance than the one he had on. The last, not being considered worth keeping, Dick dropped on the sidewalk, from which, on looking back, he saw it picked up by a brother boot-black who appeared to consider it better than his own.
They retraced their steps and went up Chambers Street to Broadway. At the corner of Broadway and Chambers Street is a large white marble warehouse, which attracted Frank's attention.
"What building is that?" he asked, with interest.

"That belongs to my friend A. T. Stewart," said Dick. "It's the biggest store on Broadway.* If I ever retire from boot-blackin', and go into mercantile pursuits, I may buy him out, or build another store that'll take the shine off this one."
* Mr. Stewart's Tenth Street store was not open at the time Dick spoke.
"Were you ever in the store?" asked Frank.
"No," said Dick; "but I'm intimate with one of Stewart's partners. He is a cash boy, and does nothing but take money all day."
"A very agreeable employment," said Frank, laughing.
"Yes," said Dick, "I'd like to be in it."
The boys crossed to the West side of Broadway, and walked slowly up the street. To Frank it was a very interesting spectacle. Accustomed to the quiet of the country, there was something fascinating in the crowds of people thronging the sidewalks, and the great variety of vehicles constantly passing and repassing in the street. Then again the shop-windows with their multifarious contents interested and amused him, and he was constantly checking Dick to look in at some well-stocked window.
"I don't see how so many shopkeepers can find people enough to buy of them," he said. "We haven't got but two stores in our village, and Broadway seems to be full of them."

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"Yes," said Dick; "and its pretty much the same in the avenoos, 'specially the Third, Sixth, and Eighth avenoos. The Bowery, too, is a great place for shoppin'. There everybody sells cheaper'n anybody else, and nobody pretends to make no profit on their goods."
"Where's Barnum's Museum?" asked Frank.
"Oh, that's down nearly opposite the Astor House," said Dick. "Didn't you see a great building with lots of flags?"
"Yes."
"Well, that's Barnum's.* That's where the Happy Family live, and the lions, and bears, and curiosities generally. It's a tip-top place. Haven't you ever been there? It's most as good as the Old Bowery, only the plays isn't quite so excitin'."
* Since destroyed by fire, and rebuilt farther up Broadway, and again burned down in February.
"I'll go if I get time," said Frank. "There is a boy at home who came to New York a month ago, and went to Barnum's, and has been talking about it ever since, so I suppose it must be worth seeing."
"They've got a great play at the Old Bowery now," pursued Dick. "'Tis called the 'Demon of the Danube.' The Demon falls in love with a young woman, and drags her by the hair up to the top of a steep rock where his castle stands."
"That's a queer way of showing his love," said Frank, laughing.

"She didn't want to go with him, you know, but was in love with another chap. When he heard about his girl bein' carried off, he felt awful, and swore an oath not to rest till he had got her free. Well, at last he got into the castle by some underground passage, and he and the Demon had a fight. Oh, it was bully seein' 'em roll round on the stage, cuttin' and slashin' at each other."
"And which got the best of it?"
"At first the Demon seemed to be ahead, but at last the young Baron got him down, and struck a dagger into his heart, sayin', 'Die, false and perjured villain! The dogs shall feast upon thy carcass!' and then the Demon give an awful howl and died. Then the Baron seized his body, and threw it over the precipice."
"It seems to me the actor who plays the Demon ought to get extra pay, if he has to be treated that way."
"That's so," said Dick; "but I guess he's used to it. It seems to agree with his constitution."
"What building is that?" asked Frank, pointing to a structure several rods back from the street, with a large yard in front. It was an unusual sight for Broadway, all the other buildings in that neighborhood being even with the street.
"That is the New York Hospital," said Dick. "They're a rich institution, and take care of sick people on very reasonable terms."
"Did you ever go in there?"
"Yes," said Dick; "there was a friend of mine, Johnny Mullen, he was a newsboy, got run over by a omnibus as he was crossin' Broadway down near Park Place. He was carried to the Hospital, and me and some of his friends paid his board while he was there. It was only three dollars a week, which was very cheap, considerin' all the care they took of him. I got leave to come and see him while he was here. Everything looked so nice and comfortable, that I thought a little of coaxin' a omnibus driver to run over me, so I might go there too."
"Did your friend have to have his leg cut off?" asked Frank, interested.
"No," said Dick; "though there was a young student there that was very anxious to have it cut off; but it wasn't done, and Johnny is around the streets as well as ever."
While this conversation was going on they reached No. 365, at the corner of Franklin Street.*
* Now the office of the Merchants' Union Express Company.
"That's Taylor's Saloon," said Dick. "When I come into a fortun' I shall take my meals there reg'lar."
"I have heard of it very often," said Frank. "It is said to be very elegant. Suppose we go in and take an ice-cream. It will give us a chance to see it to better advantage."
"Thank you," said Dick; "I think that's the most agreeable way of seein' the place myself."
The boys entered, and found themselves in a spacious and elegant saloon, resplendent with gilding, and adorned on all sides by costly mirrors. They sat down to a small table with a marble top, and Frank gave the order.
"It reminds me of Aladdin's palace," said Frank, looking about him.
"Does it?" said Dick; "he must have had plenty of money."
"He had an old lamp, which he had only to rub, when the Slave of the Lamp would appear, and do whatever he wanted."
"That must have been a valooable lamp. I'd be willin' to give all my Erie shares for it."
There was a tall, gaunt individual at the next table, who apparently heard this last remark of Dick's. Turning towards our hero, he said, "May I inquire, young man, whether you are largely interested in this Erie Railroad?"
"I haven't got no property except what's invested in Erie," said Dick, with a comical side-glance at Frank.
"Indeed! I suppose the investment was made by your guardian."
"No," said Dick; "I manage my property myself."
"And I presume your dividends have not been large?"
"Why, no," said Dick; "you're about right there. They haven't."
"As I supposed. It's poor stock. Now, my young friend, I can recommend a much better investment, which will yield you a large annual income. I am agent of the Excelsior Copper Mining Company, which possesses one of the most productive mines in the world. It's sure to yield fifty per cent. on the investment. Now, all you have to do is to sell out your Erie shares, and invest in our stock, and I'll insure you a fortune in three years. How many shares did you say you had?"

"I didn't say, that I remember," said Dick. "Your offer is very kind and obligin', and as soon as I get time I'll see about it."
"I hope you will," said the stranger. "Permit me to give you my card. 'Samuel Snap, No. -- Wall Street.' I shall be most happy to receive a call from you, and exhibit the maps of our mine. I should be glad to have you mention the matter also to your friends. I am confident you could do no greater service than to induce them to embark in our enterprise."
"Very good," said Dick.
Here the stranger left the table, and walked up to the desk to settle his bill.
"You see what it is to be a man of fortun', Frank," said Dick, "and wear good clothes. I wonder what that chap'll say when he sees me blackin' boots to-morrow in the street?"
"Perhaps you earn your money more honorably than he does, after all," said Frank. "Some of these mining companies are nothing but swindles, got up to cheat people out of their money."
"He's welcome to all he gets out of me," said Dick.

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Up Broadway To Madison Square

As the boys pursued their way up Broadway, Dick pointed out the prominent hotels and places of amusement. Frank was particularly struck with the imposing fronts of the St. Nicholas and Metropolitan Hotels, the former of white marble, the latter of a subdued brown hue, but not less elegant in its internal appointments. He was not surprised to be informed that each of these splendid structures cost with the furnishing not far from a million dollars.
At Eighth Street Dick turned to the right, and pointed out the Clinton Hall Building now occupied by the Mercantile Library, comprising at that time over fifty thousand volumes.*
* Now not far from one hundred thousand.
A little farther on they came to a large building standing by itself just at the opening of Third and Fourth Avenues, and with one side on each.
"What is that building?" asked Frank.
"That's the Cooper Institute," said Dick; "built by Mr. Cooper, a particular friend of mine. Me and Peter Cooper used to go to school together."
"What is there inside?" asked Frank.
"There's a hall for public meetin's and lectures in the basement, and a readin' room and a picture gallery up above," said Dick.
Directly opposite Cooper Institute, Frank saw a very large building of brick, covering about an acre of ground.
"Is that a hotel?" he asked.
"No," said Dick; "that's the Bible House. It's the place where they make Bibles. I was in there once,--saw a big pile of 'em."
"Did you ever read the Bible?" asked Frank, who had some idea of the neglected state of Dick's education.

"No," said Dick; "I've heard it's a good book, but I never read one. I aint much on readin'. It makes my head ache."
"I suppose you can't read very fast."
"I can read the little words pretty well, but the big ones is what stick me."
"If I lived in the city, you might come every evening to me, and I would teach you."
"Would you take so much trouble about me?" asked Dick, earnestly.
"Certainly; I should like to see you getting on. There isn't much chance of that if you don't know how to read and write."
"You're a good feller," said Dick, gratefully. "I wish you did live in New York. I'd like to know somethin'. Whereabouts do you live?"
"About fifty miles off, in a town on the left bank of the Hudson. I wish you'd come up and see me sometime. I would like to have you come and stop two or three days."
"Honor bright?"
"I don't understand."
"Do you mean it?" asked Dick, incredulously.
"Of course I do. Why shouldn't I?"
"What would your folks say if they knowed you asked a boot-black to visit you?"
"You are none the worse for being a boot-black, Dick."

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"I aint used to genteel society," said Dick. "I shouldn't know how to behave."
"Then I could show you. You won't be a boot-black all your life, you know."
"No," said Dick; "I'm goin' to knock off when I get to be ninety."
"Before that, I hope," said Frank, smiling.
"I really wish I could get somethin' else to do," said Dick, soberly. "I'd like to be a office boy, and learn business, and grow up 'spectable."
"Why don't you try, and see if you can't get a place, Dick?"
"Who'd take Ragged Dick?"
"But you aint ragged now, Dick."
"No," said Dick; "I look a little better than I did in my Washington coat and Louis Napoleon pants. But if I got in a office, they wouldn't give me more'n three dollars a week, and I couldn't live 'spectable on that."
"No, I suppose not," said Frank, thoughtfully. "But you would get more at the end of the first year."
"Yes," said Dick; "but by that time I'd be nothin' but skin and bones."
Frank laughed. "That reminds me," he said, "of the story of an Irishman, who, out of economy, thought he would teach his horse to feed on shavings. So he provided the horse with a pair of green spectacles which made the shavings look eatable. But unfortunately, just as the horse got learned, he up and died."
"The hoss must have been a fine specimen of architectur' by the time he got through," remarked Dick.
"Whereabouts are we now?" asked Frank, as they emerged from Fourth Avenue into Union Square.
"That is Union Park," said Dick, pointing to a beautiful enclosure, in the centre of which was a pond, with a fountain playing.

"Is that the statue of General Washington?" asked Frank, pointing to a bronze equestrian statue, on a granite pedestal.
"Yes," said Dick; "he's growed some since he was President. If he'd been as tall as that when he fit in the Revolution, he'd have walloped the Britishers some, I reckon."
Frank looked up at the statue, which is fourteen and a half feet high, and acknowledged the justice of Dick's remark.
"How about the coat, Dick?" he asked. "Would it fit you?"
"Well, it might be rather loose," said Dick, "I aint much more'n ten feet high with my boots off."
"No, I should think not," said Frank, smiling. "You're a queer boy, Dick."
"Well, I've been brought up queer. Some boys is born with a silver spoon in their mouth. Victoria's boys is born with a gold spoon, set with di'monds; but gold and silver was scarce when I was born, and mine was pewter."
"Perhaps the gold and silver will come by and by, Dick. Did you ever hear of Dick Whittington?"
"Never did. Was he a Ragged Dick?"
"I shouldn't wonder if he was. At any rate he was very poor when he was a boy, but he didn't stay so. Before he died, he became Lord Mayor of London."

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"Did he?" asked Dick, looking interested. "How did he do it?"
"Why, you see, a rich merchant took pity on him, and gave him a home in his own house, where he used to stay with the servants, being employed in little errands. One day the merchant noticed Dick picking up pins and needles that had been dropped, and asked him why he did it. Dick told him he was going to sell them when he got enough. The merchant was pleased with his saving disposition, and when soon after, he was going to send a vessel to foreign parts, he told Dick he might send anything he pleased in it, and it should be sold to his advantage. Now Dick had nothing in the world but a kitten which had been given him a short time before."
"How much taxes did he have to pay on it?" asked Dick.

"Not very high, probably. But having only the kitten, he concluded to send it along. After sailing a good many months, during which the kitten grew up to be a strong cat, the ship touched at an island never before known, which happened to be infested with rats and mice to such an extent that they worried everybody's life out, and even ransacked the king's palace. To make a long story short, the captain, seeing how matters stood, brought Dick's cat ashore, and she soon made the rats and mice scatter. The king was highly delighted when he saw what havoc she made among the rats and mice, and resolved to have her at any price. So he offered a great quantity of gold for her, which, of course, the captain was glad to accept. It was faithfully carried back to Dick, and laid the foundation of his fortune. He prospered as he grew up, and in time became a very rich merchant, respected by all, and before he died was elected Lord Mayor of London."
"That's a pretty good story" said Dick; "but I don't believe all the cats in New York will ever make me mayor."
"No, probably not, but you may rise in some other way. A good many distinguished men have once been poor boys. There's hope for you, Dick, if you'll try."
"Nobody ever talked to me so before," said Dick. "They just called me Ragged Dick, and told me I'd grow up to be a vagabone (boys who are better educated need not be surprised at Dick's blunders) and come to the gallows."
"Telling you so won't make it turn out so, Dick. If you'll try to be somebody, and grow up into a respectable member of society, you will. You may not become rich,--it isn't everybody that becomes rich, you know--but you can obtain a good position, and be respected."
"I'll try," said Dick, earnestly. "I needn't have been Ragged Dick so long if I hadn't spent my money in goin' to the theatre, and treatin' boys to oyster-stews, and bettin' money on cards, and such like."

"Have you lost money that way?"
"Lots of it. One time I saved up five dollars to buy me a new rig-out, cos my best suit was all in rags, when Limpy Jim wanted me to play a game with him."
"Limpy Jim?" said Frank, interrogatively.
"Yes, he's lame; that's what makes us call him Limpy Jim."
"I suppose you lost?"
"Yes, I lost every penny, and had to sleep out, cos I hadn't a cent to pay for lodgin'. 'Twas a awful cold night, and I got most froze."
"Wouldn't Jim let you have any of the money he had won to pay for a lodging?"
"No; I axed him for five cents, but he wouldn't let me have it."
"Can you get lodging for five cents?" asked Frank, in surprise.
"Yes," said Dick, "but not at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. That's it right out there."

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The Pocket-Book

They had reached the junction of Broadway and of Fifth Avenue. Before them was a beautiful park of ten acres. On the left-hand side was a large marble building, presenting a fine appearance with its extensive white front. This was the building at which Dick pointed.
"Is that the Fifth Avenue Hotel?" asked Frank. "I've heard of it often. My Uncle William always stops there when he comes to New York."
"I once slept on the outside of it," said Dick. "They was very reasonable in their charges, and told me I might come again."
"Perhaps sometime you'll be able to sleep inside," said Frank.
"I guess that'll be when Queen Victoria goes to the Five Points to live."
"It looks like a palace," said Frank. "The queen needn't be ashamed to live in such a beautiful building as that."
Though Frank did not know it, one of the queen's palaces is far from being as fine a looking building as the Fifth Avenue Hotel. St. James' Palace is a very ugly-looking brick structure, and appears much more like a factory than like the home of royalty. There are few hotels in the world as fine-looking as this democratic institution.
At that moment a gentleman passed them on the sidewalk, who looked back at Dick, as if his face seemed familiar.
"I know that man," said Dick, after he had passed. "He's one of my customers."
"What is his name?"
"I don't know."
"He looked back as if he thought he knew you."
"He would have knowed me at once if it hadn't been for my new clothes," said Dick. "I don't look much like Ragged Dick now."

"I suppose your face looked familiar."
"All but the dirt," said Dick, laughing. "I don't always have the chance of washing my face and hands in the Astor House."
"You told me," said Frank, "that there was a place where you could get lodging for five cents. Where's that?"
"It's the News-boys' Lodgin' House, on Fulton Street," said Dick, "up over the 'Sun' office. It's a good place. I don't know what us boys would do without it. They give you supper for six cents, and a bed for five cents more."
"I suppose some boys don't even have the five cents to pay,--do they?"
"They'll trust the boys," said Dick. "But I don't like to get trusted. I'd be ashamed to get trusted for five cents, or ten either. One night I was comin' down Chatham Street, with fifty cents in my pocket. I was goin' to get a good oyster-stew, and then go to the lodgin' house; but somehow it slipped through a hole in my trowses-pocket, and I hadn't a cent left. If it had been summer I shouldn't have cared, but it's rather tough stayin' out winter nights."
Frank, who had always possessed a good home of his own, found it hard to realize that the boy who was walking at his side had actually walked the streets in the cold without a home, or money to procure the common comfort of a bed.

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"What did you do?" he asked, his voice full of sympathy.
"I went to the 'Times' office. I knowed one of the pressmen, and he let me set down in a corner, where I was warm, and I soon got fast asleep."
"Why don't you get a room somewhere, and so always have a home to go to?"
"I dunno," said Dick. "I never thought of it. P'rhaps I may hire a furnished house on Madison Square."
"That's where Flora McFlimsey lived."
"I don't know her," said Dick, who had never read the popular poem of which she is the heroine.
While this conversation was going on, they had turned into Twenty-fifth Street, and had by this time reached Third Avenue.
Just before entering it, their attention was drawn to the rather singular conduct of an individual in front of them. Stopping suddenly, he appeared to pick up something from the sidewalk, and then looked about him in rather a confused way.
"I know his game," whispered Dick. "Come along and you'll see what it is."
He hurried Frank forward until they overtook the man, who had come to a stand-still.
"Have you found anything?" asked Dick.
"Yes," said the man, "I've found this."
He exhibited a wallet which seemed stuffed with bills, to judge from its plethoric appearance.
"Whew!" exclaimed Dick; "you're in luck."
"I suppose somebody has lost it," said the man, "and will offer a handsome reward."
"Which you'll get."
"Unfortunately I am obliged to take the next train to Boston. That's where I live. I haven't time to hunt up the owner."

"Then I suppose you'll take the pocket-book with you," said Dick, with assumed simplicity.
"I should like to leave it with some honest fellow who would see it returned to the owner," said the man, glancing at the boys.
"I'm honest," said Dick.
"I've no doubt of it," said the other. "Well, young man, "I'll make you an offer. You take the pocket-book--"
"All right. Hand it over, then."
"Wait a minute. There must be a large sum inside. I shouldn't wonder if there might be a thousand dollars. The owner will probably give you a hundred dollars reward."
"Why don't you stay and get it?" asked Frank.
"I would, only there is sickness in my family, and I must get home as soon as possible. Just give me twenty dollars, and I'll hand you the pocket-book, and let you make whatever you can out of it. Come, that's a good offer. What do you say?"
Dick was well dressed, so that the other did not regard it as at all improbable that he might possess that sum. He was prepared, however, to let him have it for less, if necessary.
"Twenty dollars is a good deal of money," said Dick, appearing to hesitate.

"You'll get it back, and a good deal more," said the stranger, persuasively.
"I don't know but I shall. What would you do, Frank?"
"I don't know but I would," said Frank, "if you've got the money." He was not a little surprised to think that Dick had so much by him.
"I don't know but I will," said Dick, after some irresolution. "I guess I won't lose much."
"You can't lose anything," said the stranger briskly. "Only be quick, for I must be on my way to the cars. I am afraid I shall miss them now."
Dick pulled out a bill from his pocket, and handed it to the stranger, receiving the pocket-book in return. At that moment a policeman turned the corner, and the stranger, hurriedly thrusting the bill into his pocket, without looking at it, made off with rapid steps.
"What is there in the pocket-book, Dick?" asked Frank in some excitement. "I hope there's enough to pay you for the money you gave him."
Dick laughed.
"I'll risk that," said he.
"But you gave him twenty dollars. That's a good deal of money."
"If I had given him as much as that, I should deserve to be cheated out of it."
"But you did,--didn't you?"
"He thought so."
"What was it, then?"
"It was nothing but a dry-goods circular got up to imitate a bank-bill."
Frank looked sober.
"You ought not to have cheated him, Dick," he said, reproachfully.
"Didn't he want to cheat me?"

"I don't know."
"What do you s'pose there is in that pocket-book?" asked Dick, holding it up.
Frank surveyed its ample proportions, and answered sincerely enough, "Money, and a good deal of it."
"There aint stamps enough in it to buy a oyster-stew," said Dick. "If you don't believe it, just look while I open it."
So saying he opened the pocket-book, and showed Frank that it was stuffed out with pieces of blank paper, carefully folded up in the shape of bills. Frank, who was unused to city life, and had never heard anything of the "drop-game" looked amazed at this unexpected development.
"I knowed how it was all the time," said Dick. "I guess I got the best of him there. This wallet's worth somethin'. I shall use it to keep my stiffkit's of Erie stock in, and all my other papers what aint of no use to anybody but the owner."
"That's the kind of papers it's got in it now," said Frank, smiling.
"That's so!" said Dick.
"By hokey!" he exclaimed suddenly, "if there aint the old chap comin' back ag'in. He looks as if he'd heard bad news from his sick family."
By this time the pocket-book dropper had come up.

Approaching the boys, he said in an undertone to Dick, "Give me back that pocket-book, you young rascal!"
"Beg your pardon, mister," said Dick, "but was you addressin' me?"
"Yes, I was."
"'Cause you called me by the wrong name. I've knowed some rascals, but I aint the honor to belong to the family."
He looked significantly at the other as he spoke, which didn't improve the man's temper. Accustomed to swindle others, he did not fancy being practised upon in return.
"Give me back that pocket-book," he repeated in a threatening voice.
"Couldn't do it," said Dick, coolly. "I'm go'n' to restore it to the owner. The contents is so valooable that most likely the loss has made him sick, and he'll be likely to come down liberal to the honest finder."
"You gave me a bogus bill," said the man.
"It's what I use myself," said Dick.
"You've swindled me."
"I thought it was the other way."
"None of your nonsense," said the man angrily. "If you don't give up that pocket-book, I'll call a policeman."
"I wish you would," said Dick. "They'll know most likely whether it's Stewart or Astor that's lost the pocket-book, and I can get 'em to return it."
The "dropper," whose object it was to recover the pocket-book, in order to try the same game on a more satisfactory customer, was irritated by Dick's refusal, and above all by the coolness he displayed. He resolved to make one more attempt.
"Do you want to pass the night in the Tombs?" he asked.

"Thank you for your very obligin' proposal," said Dick; "but it aint convenient to-day. Any other time, when you'd like to have me come and stop with you, I'm agreeable; but my two youngest children is down with the measles, and I expect I'll have to set up all night to take care of 'em. Is the Tombs, in gineral, a pleasant place of residence?"
Dick asked this question with an air of so much earnestness that Frank could scarcely forbear laughing, though it is hardly necessary to say that the dropper was by no means so inclined.
"You'll know sometime," he said, scowling.
"I'll make you a fair offer" said Dick. "If I get more'n fifty dollars as a reward for my honesty, I'll divide with you. But I say, aint it most time to go back to your sick family in Boston?"
Finding that nothing was to be made out of Dick, the man strode away with a muttered curse.
"You were too smart for him, Dick," said Frank.
"Yes," said Dick, "I aint knocked round the city streets all my life for nothin'."

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Dick's Early History

"Have you always lived in New York, Dick?" asked Frank, after a pause.
"Ever since I can remember."
"I wish you'd tell me a little about yourself. Have you got any father or mother?"
"I aint got no mother. She died when I wasn't but three years old. My father went to sea; but he went off before mother died, and nothin' was ever heard of him. I expect he got wrecked, or died at sea."
"And what became of you when your mother died?"
"The folks she boarded with took care of me, but they was poor, and they couldn't do much. When I was seven the woman died, and her husband went out West, and then I had to scratch for myself."
"At seven years old!" exclaimed Frank, in amazement.
"Yes," said Dick, "I was a little feller to take care of myself, but," he continued with pardonable pride, "I did it."
"What could you do?"
"Sometimes one thing, and sometimes another," said Dick. "I changed my business accordin' as I had to. Sometimes I was a newsboy, and diffused intelligence among the masses, as I heard somebody say once in a big speech he made in the Park. Them was the times when Horace Greeley and James Gordon Bennett made money."
"Through your enterprise?" suggested Frank.
"Yes," said Dick; "but I give it up after a while."
"What for?"

"Well, they didn't always put news enough in their papers, and people wouldn't buy 'em as fast as I wanted 'em to. So one mornin' I was stuck on a lot of Heralds, and I thought I'd make a sensation. So I called out 'GREAT NEWS! QUEEN VICTORIA ASSASSINATED!' All my Heralds went off like hot cakes, and I went off, too, but one of the gentlemen what got sold remembered me, and said he'd have me took up, and that's what made me change my business."
"That wasn't right, Dick," said Frank.
"I know it," said Dick; "but lots of boys does it."
"That don't make it any better."
"No," said Dick, "I was sort of ashamed at the time, 'specially about one poor old gentleman,--a Englishman he was. He couldn't help cryin' to think the queen was dead, and his hands shook when he handed me the money for the paper."
"What did you do next?"
"I went into the match business," said Dick; "but it was small sales and small profits. Most of the people I called on had just laid in a stock, and didn't want to buy. So one cold night, when I hadn't money enough to pay for a lodgin', I burned the last of my matches to keep me from freezin'. But it cost too much to get warm that way, and I couldn't keep it up."

"You've seen hard times, Dick," said Frank, compassionately.
"Yes," said Dick, "I've knowed what it was to be hungry and cold, with nothin' to eat or to warm me; but there's one thing I never could do," he added, proudly.
"What's that?"
"I never stole," said Dick. "It's mean and I wouldn't do it."
"Were you ever tempted to?"
"Lots of times. Once I had been goin' round all day, and hadn't sold any matches, except three cents' worth early in the mornin'. With that I bought an apple, thinkin' I should get some more bimeby. When evenin' come I was awful hungry. I went into a baker's just to look at the bread. It made me feel kind o' good just to look at the bread and cakes, and I thought maybe they would give me some. I asked 'em wouldn't they give me a loaf, and take their pay in matches. But they said they'd got enough matches to last three months; so there wasn't any chance for a trade. While I was standin' at the stove warmin' me, the baker went into a back room, and I felt so hungry I thought I would take just one loaf, and go off with it. There was such a big pile I don't think he'd have known it."
"But you didn't do it?"

"No, I didn't and I was glad of it, for when the man came in ag'in, he said he wanted some one to carry some cake to a lady in St. Mark's Place. His boy was sick, and he hadn't no one to send; so he told me he'd give me ten cents if I would go. My business wasn't very pressin' just then, so I went, and when I come back, I took my pay in bread and cakes. Didn't they taste good, though?"
"So you didn't stay long in the match business, Dick?"
"No, I couldn't sell enough to make it pay. Then there was some folks that wanted me to sell cheaper to them; so I couldn't make any profit. There was one old lady--she was rich, too, for she lived in a big brick house--beat me down so, that I didn't make no profit at all; but she wouldn't buy without, and I hadn't sold none that day; so I let her have them. I don't see why rich folks should be so hard upon a poor boy that wants to make a livin'."
"There's a good deal of meanness in the world, I'm afraid, Dick."
"If everybody was like you and your uncle," said Dick, "there would be some chance for poor people. If I was rich I'd try to help 'em along."
"Perhaps you will be rich sometime, Dick."

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Dick shook his head.
"I'm afraid all my wallets will be like this," said Dick, indicating the one he had received from the dropper, "and will be full of papers what aint of no use to anybody except the owner."
"That depends very much on yourself, Dick," said Frank. "Stewart wasn't always rich, you know."
"Wasn't he?"
"When he first came to New York as a young man he was a teacher, and teachers are not generally very rich. At last he went into business, starting in a small way, and worked his way up by degrees. But there was one thing he determined in the beginning: that he would be strictly honorable in all his dealings, and never overreach any one for the sake of making money. If there was a chance for him, Dick, there is a chance for you."
"He knowed enough to be a teacher, and I'm awful ignorant," said Dick.
"But you needn't stay so."
"How can I help it?"
"Can't you learn at school?"
"I can't go to school 'cause I've got my livin' to earn. It wouldn't do me much good if I learned to read and write, and just as I'd got learned I starved to death."
"But are there no night-schools?"
"Yes."
"Why don't you go? I suppose you don't work in the evenings."
"I never cared much about it," said Dick, "and that's the truth. But since I've got to talkin' with you, I think more about it. I guess I'll begin to go."

"I wish you would, Dick. You'll make a smart man if you only get a little education."
"Do you think so?" asked Dick, doubtfully.
"I know so. A boy who has earned his own living since he was seven years old must have something in him. I feel very much interested in you, Dick. You've had a hard time of it so far in life, but I think better times are in store. I want you to do well, and I feel sure you can if you only try."
"You're a good fellow," said Dick, gratefully. "I'm afraid I'm a pretty rough customer, but I aint as bad as some. I mean to turn over a new leaf, and try to grow up 'spectable."
"There've been a great many boys begin as low down as you, Dick, that have grown up respectable and honored. But they had to work pretty hard for it."
"I'm willin' to work hard," said Dick.
"And you must not only work hard, but work in the right way."
"What's the right way?"
"You began in the right way when you determined never to steal, or do anything mean or dishonorable, however strongly tempted to do so. That will make people have confidence in you when they come to know you. But, in order to succeed well, you must manage to get as good an education as you can. Until you do, you cannot get a position in an office or counting-room, even to run errands."

"That's so," said Dick, soberly. "I never thought how awful ignorant I was till now."
"That can be remedied with perseverance," said Frank. "A year will do a great deal for you."
"I'll go to work and see what I can do," said Dick, energetically.

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A Scene In A Third Avenue Car

The boys had turned into Third Avenue, a long street, which, commencing just below the Cooper Institute, runs out to Harlem. A man came out of a side street, uttering at intervals a monotonous cry which sounded like "glass puddin'."
"Glass pudding!" repeated Frank, looking in surprised wonder at Dick. "What does he mean?"
"Perhaps you'd like some," said Dick.
"I never heard of it before."
"Suppose you ask him what he charges for his puddin'."
Frank looked more narrowly at the man, and soon concluded that he was a glazier.
"Oh, I understand," he said. "He means 'glass put in.'"
Frank's mistake was not a singular one. The monotonous cry of these men certainly sounds more like "glass puddin'," than the words they intend to utter.
"Now," said Dick, "where shall we go?"
"I should like to see Central Park," said Frank. "Is it far off?"
"It is about a mile and a half from here," said Dick. "This is Twenty-ninth Street, and the Park begins at Fifty-ninth Street."

It may be explained, for the benefit of readers who have never visited New York, that about a mile from the City Hall the cross-streets begin to be numbered in regular order. There is a continuous line of houses as far as One Hundred and Thirtieth Street, where may be found the terminus of the Harlem line of horse-cars. When the entire island is laid out and settled, probably the numbers will reach two hundred or more. Central Park, which lies between Fifty-ninth Street on the south, and One Hundred and Tenth Street on the north, is true to its name, occupying about the centre of the island. The distance between two parallel streets is called a block, and twenty blocks make a mile. It will therefore be seen that Dick was exactly right, when he said they were a mile and a half from Central Park.
"That is too far to walk," said Frank.
"'Twon't cost but six cents to ride," said Dick.
"You mean in the horse-cars?"
"Yes."
"All right then. We'll jump aboard the next car."
The Third Avenue and Harlem line of horse-cars is better patronized than any other in New York, though not much can be said for the cars, which are usually dirty and overcrowded. Still, when it is considered that only seven cents are charged for the entire distance to Harlem, about seven miles from the City Hall, the fare can hardly be complained of. But of course most of the profit is made from the way-passengers who only ride a short distance.
A car was at that moment approaching, but it seemed pretty crowded.
"Shall we take that, or wait for another?" asked Frank.
"The next'll most likely be as bad," said Dick.
The boys accordingly signalled to the conductor to stop, and got on the front platform. They were obliged to stand up till the car reached Fortieth Street, when so many of the passengers had got off that they obtained seats.
Frank sat down beside a middle-aged woman, or lady, as she probably called herself, whose sharp visage and thin lips did not seem to promise a very pleasant disposition. When the two gentlemen who sat beside her arose, she spread her skirts in the endeavor to fill two seats. Disregarding this, the boys sat down.

"There aint room for two," she said, looking sourly at Frank.
"There were two here before."
"Well, there ought not to have been. Some people like to crowd in where they're not wanted."
"And some like to take up a double allowance of room," thought Frank; but he did not say so. He saw that the woman had a bad temper, and thought it wisest to say nothing.
Frank had never ridden up the city as far as this, and it was with much interest that he looked out of the car windows at the stores on either side. Third Avenue is a broad street, but in the character of its houses and stores it is quite inferior to Broadway, though better than some of the avenues further east. Fifth Avenue, as most of my readers already know, is the finest street in the city, being lined with splendid private residences, occupied by the wealthier classes. Many of the cross streets also boast houses which may be considered palaces, so elegant are they externally and internally. Frank caught glimpses of some of these as he was carried towards the Park.
After the first conversation, already mentioned, with the lady at his side, he supposed he should have nothing further to do with her. But in this he was mistaken. While he was busy looking out of the car window, she plunged her hand into her pocket in search of her purse, which she was unable to find. Instantly she jumped to the conclusion that it had been stolen, and her suspicions fastened upon Frank, with whom she was already provoked for "crowding her," as she termed it.
"Conductor!" she exclaimed in a sharp voice.
"What's wanted, ma'am?" returned that functionary.

"I want you to come here right off."
"What's the matter?"
"My purse has been stolen. There was four dollars and eighty cents in it. I know, because I counted it when I paid my fare."
"Who stole it?"
"That boy," she said pointing to Frank, who listened to the charge in the most intense astonishment. "He crowded in here on purpose to rob me, and I want you to search him right off."
"That's a lie!" exclaimed Dick, indignantly.
"Oh, you're in league with him, I dare say," said the woman spitefully. "You're as bad as he is, I'll be bound."
"You're a nice female, you be!" said Dick, ironically.
"Don't you dare to call me a female, sir," said the lady, furiously.
"Why, you aint a man in disguise, be you?" said Dick.
"You are very much mistaken, madam," said Frank, quietly. "The conductor may search me, if you desire it."
A charge of theft, made in a crowded car, of course made quite a sensation. Cautious passengers instinctively put their hands on their pockets, to make sure that they, too, had not been robbed. As for Frank, his face flushed, and he felt very indignant that he should even be suspected of so mean a crime. He had been carefully brought up, and been taught to regard stealing as low and wicked.