THE SHARPER IS OUTWITTED.
"What's the matter here?" exclaimed the policeman, as he pushed his way
forward.
"This man is a thief," replied Ralph.
"The boy is mistaken," burst out Jackson Walters, in assumed indignation.
"No, I am not mistaken," said Ralph. "He slept in the same room with me in
a hotel in Jersey City last night, and he went through my pockets and got
out before I woke up."
"A likely story!" ejaculated the sharper. "I live in Englewood, New Jersey,
and I was home last night, as usual."
The policeman looked perplexed. Ralph's earnest manner had impressed him,
and yet Jackson Walters looked honest enough.
"You are sure that you are not mistaken in your man?" he asked, of Ralph.
"I am positive, sir."
"He is mistaken," blustered the sharper. "I am an honest man. My name is
William G. Harrow, and I am in the crockery business over in Park Place."
"Well, the best you two can do is to come with me," said the policeman.
"Where to?"
"To the police station. You can tell your story there."
"I am willing," returned Ralph, promptly.
"It is an outrage," cried Jackson Walters. "A respectable citizen like
myself to be dragged to the station house----"
"You won't be dragged, you can walk," interrupted the policeman, with fine
sarcasm.
The fact that Ralph was willing to go while the other was not, had
impressed him greatly in the lad's favor.
"It's all the same. This boy is a young gamester. He wanted to frighten me
into paying him money. It's a pure case of blackmail."
"If it is, the boy will be sent up for it," replied the policeman, sharply.
"Just come with me, both of you."
"I won't go!" cried Jackson Walters, and before he could be stopped he
sprang away, and started to cross Broadway.
Like a flash Ralph was after him. The boy was fearful the sharper would get
away and the money be lost once more. Before Jackson Walters reached the
car tracks Ralph had him by the arm.
"Let go of me!" howled the sharper.
"Not much! I want my money!" replied the boy, stubbornly.
"There, take your confounded money, then!" cried the sharper, and snatching
several dollar bills from his vest pocket he flung them in the street.
The sight of the bills relieved Ralph greatly. He stooped to pick them up,
and as he did so, Jackson Walters darted across the street, the policeman
at his heels.
With the bills in his hand, Ralph got out of the way of the trucks and
wagons as soon as he could. He ran to the sidewalk, and counted the money.
There were eleven dollars. In his haste, Jackson Walters had thrown him
five dollars more than the amount originally taken.
Ralph now found himself in a new crowd of people. The policeman and the
sharper had entirely disappeared.
Thinking to find the pair, the boy crossed Broadway and hunted around, up
and down and into several of the side streets. But it was useless, the two
had disappeared.
"Well, I am not the loser," thought Ralph, with considerable satisfaction.
"I'm the gainer, and if Jackson Walters wants his money let him apply to me
for it."
The fact that he now had his money safe once more gave Ralph not a little
satisfaction. He was no longer worried over the fact that he might not see
Horace Kelsey before nightfall.
It was now noon, and Ralph felt hungry. He walked along until he came to a
clean-looking restaurant, which he entered, and called for the regular
dinner, at thirty cents. He ate all that was placed before him, with keen
relish.
While at the table he reflected upon his situation, and came to the
conclusion that his duty was to write to his mother, telling her of all
that had happened. He would also ask her to see Bill Franchard and pay him
the money due for boat hire, and tell him all, so that he might start on a
search for his missing boat.
"Then I'll wait till I see Mr. Kelsey and get his advice as to what to do
next," he thought. "Perhaps he'll see through his mystery, even if I do
not."
Close to the restaurant Ralph found a stationery store, at which he
purchased a sheet of paper and an envelope.
"Will you kindly allow me to write a letter here?" he asked.
"Certainly," replied the clerk. "You will find pen and ink at the desk in
the rear."
It took Ralph some little time to compose his letter--he had so much to
say--and when he had finished, the sheet was crowded from the first page to
the last. He sent his love to his mother, and told her to address him at
the general post office.
Ralph's next move was to take his letter to the post office and stamp and
mail it. This took nearly half an hour, but the boy enjoyed the trip to the
big Government building, and was astonished to note on what a large scale
the metropolitan post-office business was conducted.
"This beats the Westville post office all to bits," he murmured to himself.
"Mr. Hooker would cut a mighty small figure here, no matter how important
he is at home."
The letter mailed, Ralph felt better. It would relieve his mother of much
anxiety, and clear up the mystery concerning his strange disappearance.
"Shine yer shoes, boss?"
It was the inquiry of a ragged bootblack standing just outside of the post
office building.
"What's that?" asked Ralph.
"Shine yer shoes? Make 'em look like a lookin'-glass, boss."
Ralph glanced down at his shoes, and saw that they were decidedly in need
of brushing up.
"What do you charge?" he asked.
"Five fer a regular, an' ten fer an oil finish."
"I cannot afford more than five. Go ahead and do the best you can for
that."
"All right, boss, I'll give yer a good one."
The boy dropped on his knees in an angle of the building, and put out his
little box before him. In a second he was hard at work with a well-worn
whiskbroom, brushing the dirt from the bottom of Ralph's trousers.
"How do you like shining shoes?" questioned Ralph, curiously.
"Don't like it, boss," was the truthful reply. "No, sir. But a feller has
got ter do somethin' fer a livin'--or starve."
"And you can't get anything else to do?"
"Nixy. I've tried a hundred times, but it wasn't no go--all the stores and
shops is so crowded."
"That is too bad."
"Maybe you kin give me a job?" went on the bootblack, suddenly, and he
turned his blue eyes up in expectancy.
"Hardly," laughed Ralph. "I am looking for work myself."
"Dat's too bad. Do yer belong in New York?"
"No; I just arrived this morning."
"Ain't yer got no pull?"
"Pull? What do you mean?"
"No friend ter give yer a lift?"
"I have a friend, yes."
"Is he rich?"
"Yes."
"Den it's all right. But if yer didn't have no pull I would advise yer to
go back home. A feller widout a pull in New York can't do nuthin' nohow,"
and the bootblack gave an extra dash with his brush to emphasize his
remarks.
"I haven't been able to see my friend yet. He is out of town."
"Say, maybe yer kin put in a word fer me."
"What is your name?"
"Mickety."
"Mickety? Mickety what?"
"Me udder name is Powers, but da all calls me just Mickety."
"And where do you live, Mickety?"
"Over in Cherry street, wid me old gran'mudder. She can't work, an' I have
ter keep t'ings goin'."
"You have to support her, you mean?"
"Dat's it. She's most blind, Gran'ma Sal is."
"It's a good deal on your shoulders," said Ralph, and his respect for the
dirty little chap before him increased.
"Dat's why I want ter strike anudder job."
"Well, if I hear of any opening, I'll let you know. Where can I see you?"
"I'm around here most all day, boss, an' t'ank yer fer sayin' you'll look
out fer me."
The shoes were now blacked, and Mickety arose to his feet. Ralph brought
out a quarter and handed it over.
"Keep it all, Mickety," he said. "I am sorry I can't spare more just now."
"Gee! A quarter! Yer a liberal gent, so yer are! T'ank yer, sir!"
"You are quite welcome," returned Ralph, and he walked off.
He was destined to meet the bootblack again, and under circumstances full
of the gravest peril.