Not altogether in accordance with his inclinations, Walter was set to
work at his studies immediately under the direction of Mr. Crabb. He
asked his father for a week’s vacation to go about the city with Hector,
but his father answered in the negative.
“You are too far behind in your studies, Walter,” he said. “You are two
years, at least, behind Hector, and cannot spare the time as well as
he.”
“Hector will have to go round alone,” objected Walter.
“It will do him no harm to get acquainted with the different parts
of the city, as that will be a kind of knowledge he may require if he
should obtain a situation.”
“I shan’t see much of him.”
“Oh, yes, you will; Mr. Crabb will not make you study all day. Mr.
Crabb, you may work with Walter from nine to one. This, with perhaps an
hour or more devoted to study in the afternoon or evening, will enable
him to make fair progress.”
This arrangement struck Walter favorably, as he could, whenever he
desired it, spend the whole afternoon with Hector.
Hector found it very pleasant to act upon the suggestion made by Mr.
Ross. He had visited the city of New York at different times, but had
never enjoyed the opportunity of exploring it by himself. His first
visit was made to Central Park, where he mingled with the crowds
wandering about in search of pleasure.
He made his way to the lake, and took passage in one of the skiffs
which, in charge of a skilled oarsman, makes a tour of the pretty and
picturesque sheet of water.
The second morning he turned his steps southward, and walked down
Broadway. It was a leisurely walk, for he had no scruple in stopping
wherever he saw anything in the streets or in the shop windows that
seemed to him worthy of attention. About the corner of Canal Street
he was very much surprised at a boy who was on his knees, blacking the
boots of an elderly gentleman--a boy whom he recognized at once as the
son of a man who had for years been in his father’s employ as gardener
at Castle Roscoe.
“What brings him here?” thought Hector, much surprised.
“Larry Deane!” he said, as the boy finished his job, and rose from his
feet to receive his pay.
“Hector Roscoe!” exclaimed Larry, not much less surprised.
“What brings you here, and what has reduced you to such work?” inquired
Hector.
Larry Deane was a boy of about Hector’s age. He was a healthy-looking
country lad, looking like many another farmer’s son, fresh from
the country. He had not yet acquired that sharp, keen look which
characterizes, in most cases, the New York boy who has spent all his
life in the streets.
“I can answer both your questions with the same word, Master Hector,”
said Larry, as a sober look swept over his broad, honest face.
“Don’t call me master, Larry. We are equals here. But what is that
word?”
“That word is trouble,’” answered the bootblack.
“Come with me into this side street,” said Hector, leading the way into
Howard Street. “You have a story to tell, and I want to hear it.”
“Yes, I have a story to tell.”
“I hope your father and mother are well,” said Hector, interrupting him.
“Yes, they are well in health, but they are in trouble, as I told you.”
“What is the trouble?”
“It all comes of Mr. Allan Roscoe,” answered Larry, “and his son, Guy.”
“Tell me all about it.”
“I was walking in the fields one day,” said Larry, “when Guy came out
and began to order me round, and call me a clodhopper and other unlikely
names, which I didn’t enjoy. Finally he pulled off my hat, and when I
put it back on my head, he pulled it off again. Finally I found the only
way to do was to give him as good as he sent. So I pulled off his hat
and threw it up in a tree. He became very angry, and ordered me to go up
after it. I wouldn’t do it, but walked away. The next day my father
was summoned to the house, where Mr. Allan Roscoe complained of me for
insulting his son. He asked my father to thrash me, and when father
refused, he discharged him from his employment. A day or two afterward a
new gardener came to Roscoe Castle, and father understood that there was
no chance of his being taken back.”
“That was very mean in Mr. Roscoe,” said Hector, indignantly.
“Yes, so it was; but father couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t get a
new place, for it wasn’t the right time of year, and Mr. Roscoe said he
wouldn’t give him a recommendation. Well, we had very little money in
the house, for mother has been sick of late years, and all father’s
extra earnings went to pay for medicines and the doctor’s bill. So one
day I told father I would come to New York and see if I couldn’t find
something to do.”
“I think you did the right thing, Larry,” said Hector, approvingly. “It
was your duty to help your father if you could.”
“I can’t help him much,” answered Larry.
“What made you take up this business, Larry?”
“I couldn’t get anything else to do, besides, this pays better than
working in a store or office.”
“How--much can you earn at it?”
“Six or seven dollars a week.”
“I should think it would require all that to support you.”
“It would if I went to a boarding house, but I can’t afford that.”
“Where do you live?”
“At the Newsboys’ Lodging House.”
“How much does that cost you?”
“For eighteen cents a day I get supper, lodging and breakfast. In the
middle of the day I go to a cheap restaurant.”
“Then you are able to save something?”
“Yes; last week I sent home three dollars, the week before two dollars
and a half.”
“Why, that is doing famously. You are a good boy, Larry.”
“Thank you, Hector; but, though it is doing very well for me, it isn’t
as much as they need at home. Besides, I can’t keep it up, as, after
a while, I shall need to buy some new clothes. If your father had been
alive, my father would never have lost his place. Master Hector, won’t
you use your influence with your uncle to have him taken back?”
Hector felt keenly how powerless he was in the matter. He looked grave,
as he answered:
“Larry, you may be sure that I would do all in my power to have your
father restored to the position from which he never should have been
removed; but I fear I can do nothing.”
“Won’t you write to Mr. Roscoe?” pleaded Larry, who, of course, did not
understand why Hector was powerless.
“Yes, I will write to him, but I am sorry to say that I have very little
influence with Mr. Roscoe.”
“That is strange,” said Larry; “and you the owner of the estate.”
Hector did not care to explain to Larry just how matters stood, so he
only said:
“I can’t explain to you what seems strange to you, Larry, but I may be
able to do so some time. I will certainly write to Mr. Roscoe, as you
desire; but you must not build any hopes upon it. Meanwhile, will you
accept this from me, and send it to your father?”
As he spoke, he drew from his pocketbook a five-dollar bill and handed
it to his humble friend.
Larry would not have accepted it had he known that Hector was nearly as
poor as himself, but, supposing him to be the heir of a large and rich
estate, he felt no hesitation.
“Thank you very much, Hector,” he said; “you had always a kind heart.
This money will do my father very much good. I will send it to him
to-day.”
“Do you generally stand here, Larry?” asked Hector.
“Yes.”
“Then I will take pains to see you again.”
“Shall you stay long in the city, Master Hector?”
“Not Master Hector.”
“Then Hector, if you don’t mind.”
“I shall be here for the present--I don’t know how long.”
“Then let me black your boots for nothing every time you come by--I want
to do something for you.”
“Thank you, Larry; but I don’t like to have a friend perform such a
service. Remember me to your father when you write.”
“I wish I could do something for Larry,” said Hector, to himself, as he
walked away. “As it is, I stand in need of help myself.”
He was to make a friend that day under rather unusual circumstances.